m 





ltssnms 



MOLLY MYRTLE. 



" And now abideth Frith, Hope, Charity, these three ; but the greatest 
of these is Charity." 



CHICAGO, ILL. : 

PUBLISHED JOB. Til K AUTHORESS BT J. 0. W. BAILEY. 
1863. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, 

BY DR. 0. L. LEONARD, 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Northern District of Illinois. 



JOHN C. W. BAILEY, 

PRINTER, 

128 * 180 Clark St., Chicago. 



CYRUS J. WARD, 

BINDER, 

186 Lake St., Chicago. 



TO 



f * 



OF LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY, 

Do I Dedicate th.is "Volume. 



\ 






PREFACE. 



" A young girl, twelve years of age, sends us a 
piece of poetry written when she was only ten. 
Though hardly worthy to be published, it indicates 
the existence of a bud of genius which, properly 
cultivated, will expand into a glorious flower." 

And these words from your pen, Mr. Prentice, 
were the first that spoke unto my heart a prophecy 
for the Future whose brightness reached into my 
child-life a gay, unuttered song, whose words were 
" Honor and Renmon" and whose melody was the 
exultant beating of Hope's pinions ; and now that 
the petals of the bud essay to burst, dedicate I the 
new fragrance of their early blooming unto you ! 
And though of themselves " MYRTLE BLOSSOMS," 
are scarcely worth a passing thought, yet conse 
crated, as they are, to the sacred cause for which 
my heart's tears have baptized them they have a 
merit not their own ( to plead ; and I feel that my 
humble offering on the great Altar of National 
Prosperity cannot be dedicated to one who has 
contributed more towards the glorious end, Union 



448103 



6 PREFACE. 

and Liberty, than yourself! Doubly meet is it 
then, that I should dedicate these feeble " brain 
children" to you, poet and patriot. Both because 
of the love and gratitude my childhood cherished 
for you and the admiration that is due from riper 
years to your genius and patriotism ! So with 
your name and the holy ones, UNION and LIBEETY, 
crowning and adorning my book, I shall feel that 
many hearts will give it welcome that might other 
wise be closed to it. And that it may steal, like a 
whispered benediction, into every heart whose 
generosity has contributed, by the purchase of this 
volume, to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded 
soldiers in the hospitals of Kentucky ; is the prayer 
that my soul wings upward through earnest tears 
of hopeful waiting. 

NEWCASTLE, KY., June, 1863. 



CONTENTS. 



The Future's Rainbow, . - t} ' . . 9 

After the Battle, . . . ' . ,. .12 

Sallie Webb and Adele Drane, . . .. 17 

Dora Delwood's Story, . . ... 19 

My Ideal Friend, . . >,,.'..,;> 27 

Meeta Glenn's Letters, . at! $2 

On my Picture, . ... , ... . 45 

The Good of Fiction, . . . * .47 

Now that the Pain is Gone, . i .,. ,> 49 

A Myrtle Reverie, . . . . , . 51 

" The Sentry's Christmas," -..'.. . 53 

Almost a Romance, . . , . - : . . 55 

Indiana, . . ." ,...' , .. .*; . . 59 

Married Men, . ,. t . ... .. < . 62 

Happy New Year, .' ' - . .. , . 66 

Song of Other Days, ., . ,v . . 80 

My Heart's Story, ^ '. .' ... 81 

My Sister Nellie, ^\ . . . . , . . 84 

Where the Purple Shadows Sleep, . . .".' 88 

To a Jealous " Friend," . . . v . 90 

Dudley Graham, . . ' . . . 93 

To Albert, 101 

" To One who Sang of Love," (Parody,) . 104 

" Cannot a Mm Smile," etc., . . . .106 

In Memory of Ettie N. Wintersmith, . . 108 

Written in a Bride's Journal, . . . .110 



8 CONTENTS. 

To my Father, . S . . . .112 
Shall Women Vote ? . . . . .114 

On a Picture, 116 

A Birthday Tribute, 117 

The Stepmother's Failure, . . . .120 

Home from the War, 208 

To Him who can best Understand, . . 210 

To Mrs. M. A. S , 212 

Marion Grey, 214 

Cry of the Motherless, 217 

To my Namesake, ..... 220 

Thy Friendship, 222 

The Coquette's Wager, .... 224 

To Grace Granville, ...... 237 

Tenderly to my Sister, .... 239 

Impromptu, 244 

Twilight Musings, 246 

In Memory of Annie E. Pryor, . . . 249 

To Nettie Scott, 251 

Shadowed, 253 

In my Dream I got a Letter, . . . . 256 

To Madison, . . . . '-". . .258 

"Break! Break! Break!" .... 260 

To the Memory of Jessie, .... 262 

Away with the Traitor Flag ! 264 

The Blind Minister's Love, .... 266 

In Memoriam, ...... 274 

A Birthday Tribute To my Brother, . .277 

My Congenial, 280 

Over a Faded Now, 293 

At the Gate, 297 

The Parting, 301 



MYRTLE BLOSSOMS. 



The Future's Kainbow, 



From the dim enchanted Future, 

Leans a picture strangely sweet, 
Like the bow that spans the heavens, 

When the rain and sunshine meet. 
Through the rain of sorrow falling, 

O'er a waste of blighted bloom, 
Beams the sunlight of the Future, 

Lighting up the dreary gloom. 

Oh that picture rare and radiant, 

Oh that picture strangely sweet,, 
Like the bow that spans the heavens, 

When the rain and sunshine meet ; 
Is a cottage vine-embowered, 

Singing birds about the door, 
Sunshine streaming through the window, 

On the dainty cottage floor. 

2 



10 THE FUTURE'S RAINBOW. 

Roses climbing round the porches, 

Like some merry elfs at play ; 
Rare vines drooping graceful tendrils, 

In a fond endearing way, 
O'er the doors that open softly, 

To the pleasant rooms within 
Is it strange the sweet home picture 

From the Now my heart can win? 

Is it strange the Present's shadows, 

O'er my heart can cast no gloom, 
When the Future beareth for me, 

Such "a freight of tropic bloom?" 
Is it strange my smiles are shining, 

Through the falling of my tears, 
When my life hath so much gladness, 

Waiting in the hastening years ? 

Like some gentle night-star, leaning 

O'er a darkened vale below ; 
So the Future's sunlight streameth, 

On the Present's bitter woe ! 
Oh that cottage, in the Future 

Nestled in its roses sweet, 
Shining like the bow of promise, 

When the ram and sunshine meet, 
Woos my heart like gentle music 

Of a mother's favorite song, 
Borne by summer's gentlest breezes, 

On the breath of bloom along. 



THE FUTURE'S RAINBOW. 11 

In that cottage, best beloved, 

Shines thy tender worshipped face ! 
Making bright with smiles of loving, 

All the distant sweet home-place. 
" Home sweet home /" I've heard them sing it, 

As I turned to hide my tears, 
Gushing for the home I cherished, 

In the glad evanished years. 

" Home sweet home /" my heart runs gladly, 

In an eager, joyous beat; 
Smiles and tears make gorgeous tinting, 

As when rain and sunshine meet 
Home sweet home ! oh Father make it, 

Fit me for the home above ; 
Make my homes on earth, in heaven, 

Oh, my Father, homes of low ! 



After the Battle, 



[Respectfully dedicated to Miss VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.] 
I. 

All day long the sun had wandered 

Through the slowly-creeping hours, 
And at last the stars were shining 

Like some golden-petaled flowers 
Scattered o'er the azure bosom 

Of the glory-haunted night, 
Flooding all the sky with grandeur, 

Filling all the earth with light. 

II. 

And the fair moon, 'mid her sweet stars, 

With no mists of blinding tears, 
Like " a pearl of great price," smiling, 

Just as she had smiled for years, 
On the young land that had risen 

In her beauty and her might, 
Like some gorgeous superstructure 

Woven in the dreams of night : 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 13 

m. 

With her "cities hung like jewels" 

On her green and peaceful breast, 
With her harvest fields of plenty, 

And her quiet homes of rest. 
But a change had fallen sadly 

O'er the young and beauteous land, 
Brothers, on the field fought madly, 

That once wandered hand in hand. 

IV. 

And " the hearts of distant mountains 

Shuddered " with a fearful wonder 
As the echoes burst upon them, 

Of the cannon's awful thunder. 
Through the long hours waged the battle, 

Till the setting of the sun 
Dropped a seal upon the record, 

That the day's mad work was done. 

V. 

Thickly on the trampled grasses 

Lay the battle's awful traces, 
'Mid the blood-stained clover blossoms 

Lay the stark and ghastly faces.' 
With no mourners bending downward 

O'er a costly funeral pall, 
And the dying daylight softly, 

With the starlight, watched o'er all. 



14 AFTER THE BATTLE. 

VI. 

And where eager, joyous footsteps, 

Once perchance were wont to pass, 
Ran a little streamlet, making 

One " blue fold in the dark grass," 
And where from its hidden fountain, 

Clear and bright the brooklet burst, 
Two had crawled, and each was bending 

O'er to slake his burning thirst. 

VII. 

Then beneath the solemn starlight 

Of the radiant jewelled skies, 
Both had turned, and were intently 

Gazing in each other's eyes. 
Both were solemnly forgiving 

Hushed the pulse of passion's breath 
Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, 

By the chilling hand of death. 

VIII. 

Then spake one_in bitter anguish, 

" God have pity on my wife 
And my children in New Hampshire, 

Orphans from this cruel strife." 
And the other, leaning closer, 

Underneath the solemn sky, 
Bowed his head to hide the moisture 

Gathering in his downcast eye ; 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 15 

IX. 

" I've a wife and little daughter, 

'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom," 
Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, 

" O God, pity all their gloom," 
And the wounded, in their death-hour, 

Talking of the loved one's woes, 
Nearer drew unto each other, 

Till they were no longer foes. 

X. 

And the Georgian listened sadly 

As the other tried to speak, 
While the tears were dropping hotly 

O'er the pallor of his cheek : 
" How she used to stand and listen, 

Looking o'er the fields for me, 
Waiting, till she saw me coming, 

'Neath the shadowy old plum tree. 
Nevermore I'll hear her laughter, 

As she sees me at the gate, 
And beneath the plum tree's shadows, 

All in vain for me she'll wait." 

XI. 

Then the Georgian, speaking softly, 

Said, " A brown-eyed little one 
Used to wait among the roses, 

For me, when the day was done ; 
And amid the early fragrance 

Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, 



16 AFTER TUB BATTLE. 

Up and down the old verandah, 

I would chase my darling's feet. 
But on earth no more the beauty 

Of her face my eye shall greet, 
Nevermore I'll hear the music 

Of those merry pattering feet ; 
And the solemn starlight, falling 

On the far-off Georgia bloom, 
Tells no tale unto my darling, 

Of her absent father's doom." 

XII. 

Through the tears that rose between them, 

Both were trying grief to smother, 
As they clasped each other's fingers, 

Whispering, " Lefs forgive each otlier." 
****** 

XIII. 

When the morning sun was walking 

" Up the gray stairs of the dawn," 
And the crimson East was flushing 

All the forehead of the morn, 
Pitying skies were looking sadly 

On the " once proud happy land," 
On the Southron and the Northman, 

Holding fast each other's hand. 
Fatherless the golden tresses, 

Watching 'neath the old plum tree ; 
Fatherless, the little Georgian, 

Sporting in unconscious glee. 



Sallie Webb and Adele Drane. 



Two small heads with shining hair, 
Two white foreheads pure and fair, 
Lips like berries wet with dew, 
" Two eyes black and two eyes blue,' 
Looking at the Autumn rain, 
Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! 

They are sitting with a book 
In their hands, but not a look 
Give they to the letters there ; 
Earth as yftt hath brought no care ; 
What know they of learning's gain, 
Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ? 

Round each other arms are twining 
In each face child-love is shining: 
Little angels free from guile, 
They are lent to us awhile, 
Lent to brighten hours of pain, 
Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! 



18 SALLIE WEBB AND ADELE DRANE. 

Now on me their eyes are turning 
Do they pity my heart's yearning? 
Long to brighten all the shade 
That the weary years have made ? 
Long to free my life from pain 
Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ? 

No ! They have a childish wonder : 
" Say, Miss Agnes, what makes thunder ? n 
'Tie a wail for lightning vanished, 
Like a heart's from sunlight banished, 
When it weeps a tearful rain, 
Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! 



Dora Delwood's Story, 



CHAPTER I. 

And you want to know, Lissie Lawrence, why 
the shadows are ever folded over my face, and why 
my smiles are so faint and solemn. Lissie Law 
rence, Lissie Lawrence, I thought the shadows in 
my heart were so deep down, and nestled so closely 
over the little grave there, that they could never 
climb up to my face. But your quick eyes have 
seen them, and their still solemn shading that falls 
over my cheek has read unto you a story that you 
would fain have me confirm. Where shall I begin ? 
Back to the time when I whispered "Mother 
mother," and she did not answer me? No, you 
won't care about hearing how they covered the 
white, smiling face from my anguished gaze, and 
said, " Earth to earth, and dust to dust" over the 
mother that would never again hold me in her arms 
when I was tired and sleepy. Neither will the 
sobbing cries of a motherless childhood interest 
you. So I'll begin at the time that opens a new 
era in every woman's life. The sacred time when 



20 DORA DELWOOD'S STORY. 

she first hears the " old ever new story" that she is 
beloved. 

The evening shadows lay on the hillside just as 
you say the heart-shadows lie on the mournful 
paleness of my cheek. The winter winds were 
hurrying down the valleys, and I was dreaming of 
the spring-time. 

It has been nearly two years ago, Lissie, and I 
was almost a child then you may know I was, or 
I couldn't have been dreaming of the spring blos 
soms when his glorious eyes were bent upon me. 
But I was; and when he asked, "Do you love 
me ?" I couldn't say " yes," and, oh ! Lissie, there's 
a great pain in my heart because I may not live 
over those two lost years. Come closer to me, 
Lissie, and let me lay my head down in your lap, 
that you may not see the great woe treading over 
my face. I learned to love him, Lissie. I came to 
know what it was to be haunted by his tones, and 
to see, waking or sleeping, the regal glory of his 
eyes ; but, oh, I was so young. It has been only 
two little years ago and yet I'm a score of years 
older than when (my heart would break were it to 
tell you over the particulars,) I sobbed myself to 
sleep, knowing that he was lost to me forever ! 

These winter days, Lissie don't they make 
sharp, shivering pains quiver through you ? And 
don't looking at the sunbeams make the tears step 
out from the yearning stare in your eyes ? It must 
be this chilly day that makes me feel so. It cannot 



DOBA DELWOOD'S STOKY. 21 

be the restless memories calling out from the drear 
silences in my heart. Two years two years it's 
a long time. It has made me a woman ! Why do 
I reach out my hands imploringly toward the sealed 
gates of that quiet place, whose stillness no foot 
step breaketh, the land of the Past ? 

He is in Europe now, Lissie. He has forgotten 
the child-love that he once said was very dear to 
him. He has forgotten the clinging clasp of my 
fingers; the crimson kisses he used to take; the 
trusting eyes that sometimes drooped beneath his 
own. He has forgotten all that, but oh ! Lissie, do 
you think he has forgotten the bitter words of hate 
I wrote one night when I was mad with the frenzied 
thought that he didn't love me ? Oh, do you think 
he has forgotten all that would make him greet my 
memory with a reproach ? You don't answer me, 
Lissie, for you know as well as I do, that he would 
have come back to me if he had forgotten it ; and, 
oh, Lissie, press your fingers tight over my forehead, 
and hold its throbbings while I say it, perhaps 
perhaps, never mind my tears, they come very 
quickly sometimes, perhaps perhaps I say he 
may be loving some one else now. He may be hold 
ing another's hand as he used to hold mine, and 
press your fingers tighter over my forehead, you 
don't hold the throbs stilL Yes, now you do, for 
the quivering pain has gone out from my temples 
down to my heart. When persons have heart- 
disease they feel this kind of pain, don't they? 



22 DORA DELWOOD'S STORY. 

And they die very suddenly with it, don't they ? 
Do you think he'd care, Lissie, if some day he'd 
read in the list of the dead ones 

" Dora Delwood, aged eighteen years ?" 

Never mind, darling, brushing the tears off from 

my cheeks they tread very softly, and don't seem 

to press otit my life as the shadows do that are 

weighing so heavily on my heart. If you could 

just put your hand down there and lift them up a 
moment until I could take one more free glad 

breath, such as I used to take when I drank in 
eagerly the words he spoke unto me, of a future, 
that I never dreamed could seem so fair and radiant, 
and be so full of black despair. 

Lissie, Lissie, I feel your tears dropping on my 
forehead. Are you thinking of dead "Daisy?" 
And are these tears a voiceless thanksgiving that 
she didn't live to put her head down in your lap 
and say 

" My heart is broken, sister, but if I could go 
down into the waves of death's river, I'd forget it." 

Your tears are falling faster, and I know you 
must be asking God to forgive you that you grieved 
when He spared her this suffering. You said you 
planted the myrtle, too, over her grave, for my 
sake, didn't you ? That was right we loved one 
another ! I've got her last letter up stairs, in my 
writing desk. I was reading it over last night, 
where she told me of her love for Marion Graves. 
Your " Cousin Marion," Lissie. They loved each 



DORA DELWOOD'S STORY. 



23 



other, very much, didn't they? But even while 
they were talking of the happy years that awaited 
them, the listening angels looked at one another 
pityingly, for they knew that " one should be taken 
and the other left." 

" Bo you think it would have broken his heart, 
Lissie, (as it did Marion Graves' when Daisy died) 
if I had died when he loved me so ? Which would 
have been the worst for me to have died and let 
his heart break over my grave, or for me to live 
with my heart broken over the grave of his love ? 
What a selfish question ! 'Twere better for a mil 
lion hearts like mine to break than for one bitter 
pain to shake the life chords of a being like him. 
Oh, if I could know that in bearing this pain I am 
shielding him from the shadow and giving him the 
sunshine of life, I don't think my heart would faint 
so under its burden. Even if he didn't know I was 
suffering for him, I shouldn't care, for some day 
the angels would tell it all to him, and on the 
stumy banks in Heaven he'd tell me the story over 
again, and and the room is getting very dark, 
Lissie, I cannot look into your face. But it will 
never be dark there. 

Do you think we shall know one another there, 
Lissie ? 



CHAPTER II. 

I resolved to put from me memories whose 
haunting presences were wearing out my life. 



24 DORA DELWOOD'S STOBY. 

With her last fainting breath mother whispered, 
" Trust in the Lord He will take care of you." 
And though, in my blindness, I could not see the 
way that He would lead me out of the darkness 
into the sunshine, yet I felt that He would do it, 
and I trusted Him. Oh, the sweet privilege of 
being able to trust in the Lord to look off hope 
fully through the dim mists of slumbering years, 
and feel that " Our Father" is a merciful God, and 
will lead very tenderly over the rough places all 
who put their hands in His trustingly. Sometimes, 
Lissie, when faith grew weak, I felt as I imagine 
Peter must have felt when he cried, " Help, Lord, 
or I perish." Yes, sometimes the treacherous 
craves of doubt threatened to engulf me, then' the 
blackening woe almost crushed me, but from the 
depths of that awful darkness I, too, held up my 
hands, with the old pleading cry, " Help, Lord, or 
I perish," and, Lissie, sweet friend, He heard me ! 

I did not pray that God would send him back to 
me. No, no, I only prayed for strength to live here 
and the glory of living hereafter. I felt that my 
Father knew what was best for me. I only asked 
for His protecting care. But think not the earth- 
love had gone out from my heart. No, Lissie, it 
haunted me " by day and by night," for " whom 
the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Then I asked for 
strength, and oh, Lissie Lawrence, look into my 
eyes, that you may realize the truth of these words, 
" God will not refuse to hear the cry of the deso- 



DORA DELWOOD'S STORY. 25 

late." Oh, if I could tell every heart sinking 
to-night under a crushing weight of woe, that God 
knows it. If I could whisper to every being, stum 
bling in the darkness of a great shadow, that God 
is able and willing to uplift the blackness and 
strengthen the fainting heart how happy it would 
make me. Oh, the blessed boon of telling suffer 
ing mortality where to find consolation. Of 
making them feel how good God is ; but, Lissie, 
the night winds whisper it, the stars trace it in 
burning letters of light along the blue waste over 
head, and yet there are many eyes looking up 
through blinding tears, with no glad ecstatic 
thanksgivings lighting up the dreary byways of 
their aching hearts. God pity them wherever they 
may be, and for His son's sake lead them unto the 
"Tree of Life." 

It is two weeks to-night, Lissie, since I sat with 
my cheek pressed up close to the window-pane of 
our old-fashioned reception-room. I was thinking 
of the blue heavens, the crowding shadows that 
nestled up under the cedar trees, and the night 
winds that kept chasing each other round the 
house; but more than all, I was thinking of him, 
Lissie. The room was very quiet and monotonous, 
but I was not lonely. No, no, I was thinking that 
God would take care of me, and my soul was soar 
ing aloft with the glad hope that I should meet him 
in Heaven. I heard the reception-room door open, 
and knew that some visitor was about to be ushered 

3 



26 DORA DEL WOOD'S STORY. 

in ; but for a moment I did not look round ; I could 
not bear to have my reverie broken. I heard a 
smothered exclamation, and then I saw the face 
that will never make my heart ache to think of. 

When the May-days bring unto the earth their 
glorious birthright of sunbeams and blossoms, we 
are to be married ! Are you glad, Lissie ? 



My Ideal Friend, 



[Dedicated to 8. L. M .] 

" Let thee take his place in my heart ?" No, that 
may not, cannot be. 

For a fairer, brighter chamber holds its open door 
for thee. 

There no weary wailing mem'ries wander through 
the haunted air, 

And no rival faces greet thee with a cold, unmean 
ing stare ! 

Enter then the happy chamber, with the sunlight 
on the floor 

And the white-browed angel, " Friendship," keep 
ing watch beside the door. 

Ere my life had ever known thee, ere thy clear eyes 
shone on me, 

Friendship kept this chamber sacred, yearned, and 
waited, friend, for thee ! 

Strove I oft to scan the features floating in the 
phantom-light 



28 MY IDEAL FRIEND. 

Shed by Fancy o'er my spirit in the stillness of the 

night, 
When my heart with noiseless pinions soared above 

the things of earth 
Far above its bitter mockery and its hollow-hearted 

mirth ; 

Far into the shining valleys of the Future's mystic 
land, 

Where my hand could feel the pressure of a faith 
ful phantom-hand. 

Where my soul could hear a whisper from a brave 
heart, fond and true. 

Oh, a picture bright and glowing rose before my 
longing view, 

Of a Friendship pure and lasting, reaching with a 
golden gleam 

O'er a life whose fairest fancy was its glowing 
Friendship-dream. 

Many loudly knocked for entrance at the pleasant 
chamber-door, 

Where the Angel's radiant smiling made the sun 
light on the floor, 

But the Angel smiled, and pointed to the claimants 

one and all, 
Smaller rooms, with lower ceilings, lying just across 

the hall. 



MY IDEAL FRIEND. 29 

And my heart in gentle pity, hung their faces on the 

wall, 
Wrote their names, in hopeful yearning, in the 

rooms across the hall. 

Left the Angel waiting, smiling, like some gay, 

expectant bride, 
Looking at the names and faces leaning from the 

other side. 
One by one the faces faded from their frame-work 

on the wall, 
One by one the lights were darkened in the rooms 

across the hall. 

" All unworthy most unworthy /" floated through 

the haunted air ! 
Gone are all the shapes of beauty, echo only 

answers " Where /" 
And the Angel, at the doorway, smiling through 

the bitter pain, 
Sobbed out by a wailing spirit, sacred kept her 

pure domain ! 

Kept the Friendship-chamber spotless, with its 

breath of blossom sweet, 
Kept it in most tender waiting for its destined 

Ruler's feet. 
Enter then it bids thee "Welcome," angel-eyes 

have read thy soul, 



30 MY IDEAL FRIEND. 

Long hath been its tender waiting, enter thou, and 
take control ! 

Train the roses at the window, with the heavenly 
smiles of Trust; 

From the paintings smiling on thee keep Oblivion's 
dimming dust. 

On the walls write holy wishes, born of angel- 
prompted thought, 

On thy actions daily, nightly let " Our Father's" 
smile be sought ! 

For the Angel, "Friendship," standeth near the 

door with quiet grace, 
With a prayerful pleading, yearning, looking ever 

in thy face. 
Praying that thy feet may never stain the sacred 

shining floor, 
That the room may ne'er be darkened, standing 

with its bolted door 

Keeping hidden faded fancies, lying dead and 
pulseless all 

'Neath the still and solemn shading of their droop 
ing funeral-pall ; 

Keeping hidden bitter memories written on the 
golden wall, 

Like those smaller rooms in shadow, lying just 
across the hall. 



MY IDEAL FRIEND. 31 

But when years have come and vanished, may the 

room its splendor wear, 
Like some garden, rare and radiant, blooming in 

the summer air ! 
May thy face grow fair and fairer, leaning from the 

shining wall, 
And may thou and I be ready, when we "hear 

the angels call !" 



Meeta Glenn's Letters, 



SEPTEMBER 2d, 1808. 

Nannie Ryon, Nannie Ryon, through the twilight 
of its vanished bliss my heart looks back to the 
days when you and I, wandering arm and arm 
through that dim old forest round the little country 
school-house, talked of a future whose glittering 
heights shone down on us like the crimson glory of 
an autumn sunset. And now, as your fair, dimpled 
face, with its full, red lips and blue, laughing eyes, 
shines down from the vanished past, my heart bends 
over with a tender caress, that is half mournful as 
memory whispers of the years since we parted. 
You have not forgotten me, Nannie ; I know this 
by the hidden fountain in my own heart, whose soft 
gurgling whispers ever of the love that once bound 
our two lives in a close embrace. Nearly three 
years, and yet it seems but yesterday since my 
heart brimmed over with its misty tears when I 
whispered " Good-bye, Nannie." Ah ! it has been 
a great many "yesterdays" since then; and now, 
as on the soft waves of remembrance they come 



MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 33 

drifting back, what a story they tell unto me a 
story that I have lived since we stood on the old 
stile blocks, and your brother Will held the bridle 
of the little pony I was going to ride away from 
your home away from that old red farmhouse, 
where on pleasure's wing the gay moments had 
hurried by away from your sainted mother, 
whose sweet, patient face memory caresses; and 
more than all, away from you, Nannie, whose dear 
image my heart carried " by day and by night." 

Shall I tell you the story? Will you listen 
patiently, and when I have done will you whisper, 
" Dear Meeta," and drop a quivering tear over the 
image hung in a solemn corner of your heart the 
time-dimmed image of Meeta Glenn? Will you 
forget the cold, estranging years that have passed? 
And will you say unto me the words I used to hear 
dropping from your gentle lip, "I love you?'* 

Say them to me once more, and though I may 
not lay my head up 'gainst your heart, and feel 
your arms about me, -yet write the words to me 
once more. They are sweet words ! I never hear 
them spoken, ever so carelessly, without feeling a 
quivering thrill waken up my being as I remember 
one time, a sacred time, fraught with hallowed joy, 
when I heard them. I used to tell you everything, 
Nannie. My girlish worship of the unseen genius, 
Virginia F. T. Together we read " Look Out ;" 
then I told you how I was dreaming of a fame that 
maybe the years would bring unto me; and 



34 MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 

perhaps somebody would cry over my stories 
somebody would pray God, " Please, Father, let us 
meet some time ;" and maybe somebody would love 
me for my writing, even as we loved so reverently 
Virginia F. T. 

'Twas a bright dream, and looking into your 
pure eyes, how I loved to tell you of it ! Yes, I 
used to tell you everything ; and now may I tell 
you of this, Nannie ? of this dream, the sweetest 
I ever " loved and lost," whose vanished rapture 
makes my heart sigh through a twilight that only 
the radiance from the silver-crowned mountains of 
the great " Hereafter," may banish and lead into 
the golden glory of a perfect day. 

'Tis growing late, and twilight mantles the earth 
and the sky, just as a twilight mantles my life and 
tones to sober gray those purple glories that once 
beamed from the hope-crowned hilltops of my 
eager heart. I cannot write much more now, but 
when you have written unto me words of sweet 
remembrance and loving tenderness I will tell you 
the story of my life. Yes, though death has not 
yet won me from the uncertain joys of this life, yet 
I feel that when they " lay me down to sleep," the 
angels will call this the story of my life. Future 
years may bring many changes unto me. I may 
be a busy actor in the varied scenes of earth, but I 
shall be merely an aetor, having no feeling, no 
hope, neither joy, in aught save the memory that 
one time my being thrilled to the triumphant 



MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 35 

melody of loving and being loved. It is indeed 
the story of my life ; and though you will hear it 
at the la'st day, when all things are revealed, yet I 
will tell it to you in my next, Nannie, because of 
the love we have borne for each other ; and because 
the weight of its hidden grave is very heavy in my 
heart. 

You will write very soon, and think always very 
tenderly of MEETA. GLENN. 



SWEET HOME, Sept 20th, 1808. 

'Tis such a day, dear Nannie, as Virginia F. T. 
would call " a sweet poem," that, with my heart all 
quivering with its restless memories, I take up my 
pen to write unto you the story of my life. 

Oh, Nannie, when the angel wrote it in the Book 
of Record, did my mother rest her shining wings 
on the sacred volume, and drop sorrowing tears as 
she read an anguish, of which I have no power to 
tell you. And when she heard the prayers my 
.burdened soul sent up, did she not lift her pleading 
eyes, with an unspoken prayer, that God would be 
merciful to her child ? Yes, yes, she must have 
done it, or how could this calm have settled over 
my tempest-beaten soul ? And yet, Nannie Ryon, 
do the tears blind me, because I'm dreaming of one 
time, the thought of which is a bright gem in that 
glorious landmark of life's journey, when Marcus 
Heith said unto me, 

" Let us link our lives together, Meeta." 



36 MRKTA QZJCinrg LETTEHS. 

I did not love him then, but in my childishness 
wept that I did not. 

With my natural and cultivated romance, I felt 
that it would be the story of his life. A love that 
would forever haunt the future years, and cloud 
them with the woe of being unloved. And so I 
prayed that God would make me love him. I was 
very wicked, but will not my mother, angel-crowned, 
plead for her erring child ? 

The prayer was answered ! And oh, friend of 
heart, may Heaven grant that you never feel a woe 
like that which my answered prayer brought unto 
me ! I must tell you of it, though Nannie, Nannie, 
an enmity I have tried to bury, rises up and wrings 
my soul as conscience thunders. " If ye love not 
your brother whom ye have seen, how can ye love 
God whom ye have not seen?" Did you ever hate 
anybody, Nannie ? No, for you never knew Mildred 
Wentworth ! She is a distant cousin of mine, and 
her house was my home when the " Future called 
down to the Present" so bright a prophecy of 
happiness in the love of Marcus Heith. 

" I have too much confidence in you, Meeta, to 
ask you to keep the cherished secret of my love for 
you from the ridicule of those around us. I know 
that no vain pride of conquest will make you betray 
me." 

And looking into the eloquent eyes of Marcus 
Heith, I answered solemnly, 

" I never will !" 



MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 37 

And the angels know how reverently ray soul 
bowed herself as she echoed the words. But she, 
Mildred Wentworth, made me tell her. I never 
knew how she did it. I only know that one time, 
sobbing on her breast, I told her of this love, 
which I prized so much, but could not return. 
Though I was cherishing a sweet hope of learning 
to love him, and reveling in the perfect bliss of 
a mutual affection. I did not intend to tell her all, 
or any of this, yet somehow I did, and then fright 
ened by a dim prophecy of a coming sorrow, I 
whispered, 

" Cousin Mildred, you will never betray this, will 
you ? Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, but somehow 
my heart ached so I couldn't help it" 

And she, may God forgive her, promised, in the 
solemn hush of that winter twilight, that no word 
of it should ever pass her lips ; and, Nannie Ryon, 
I believed her. Perhaps 'twas well that I did, 
after the mischief was done, for my dreams that 
night were peaceful as when mother hushed me on 
her breast in the innocent days of my lost baby 
hood. 

Mildred Wentworth, Mildred Wentworth, I have 
prayed God to take this bitter hatred out of my 
heart ; I have prayed that He would forgive you ; 
and oh, I have prayed that I might meet you in 
Heaven ; yet I never mention your name without 
quivering and burning with my strugglings to keep 
down the thoughts that arise, as I remember how, 



448103 



MEETA GLEXX'S LETTERS. 

without any cause of which I know, for enmity 
toward me, you betrayed my trust, broke your own 
solemn promise, and oh, Mildred Wentworth, broke 
something far more earnest and loving, my heart, 
that must ever mourn for a lost love, in whose light 
it lived. 

Oh, Marcus Heith, now your face is before me ; 
and again I see the grieved, disappointed expres 
sion, striking out all the tenderness from your 
smile, that seemed half bitter with contempt, as 
you spoke of Mildred "Wentworth's telling about 
my " boasting of a conquest." 

And I, cold and desolate, and miserable, listened, 
feeling that I could offer no word in extenuation of 
my broken contract ; yet, as he was going, he took 
my hand and said, 

" My dear child, for your own sake, do not men 
tion this affair again." 

He would have loved me then in spite of all, but 
we parted, and she built up a great barrier between 
us a barrier that years have only strengthened a 
yawning gulf, in whose black abyss are flung the 
fallen stars of Love, and Hope, and Joy, that 
Despair hurled from my life's sky. I do not know 
all she told him. I only remember a letter that 
came to me from him, whose cold, cruel words 
bowed me in prostrate anguish, and wrung from 
me the piteous cry that God would let me die! 
But there was no room in Heaven for me, no little, 
vacant spot where my torn, bleeding heart could 
find a refuge. 



MEET A GLEXN'S LETTERS. 39 

I have never seen him but once since, and then 
ray evil genius made my face wear a look of scorn 
toward him whose love had been the sweetest joy 
my life had ever known. 

I had lived half hoping that some time the love 
he once bore me would rise up from its shadowed 
grave, and lead him unto me. Now, that hope is 
dead, for, three months ago, he went to Europe ; 
and, Nannie, Nannie, until our grave-clothes rustle 
'gainst each other, I shall never see him any more ! 

Perhaps, when we are angels together, he will 
remember our earth-love, and let me walk by his 
side in Heaven ! 

Oh, Nannie, I have wakened out of the old, 
charmed life ! I have no wishes, no joys here now, 
but over the ruined waste in my heart is bridged a 
newly-born hope, that some day I may walk amid 
the purple splendors which light up the shores of 
that land where mother is waiting for her weary- 
hearted MJSETA. 

SEPTEMBER 2d, 1810. 

It has been a weary while, dear Nannie, since 
your last letter came unto me, and almost a year 
since I last wrote ; but as we have been together 
so much, what need of writing? 

I think it was a month after you left us, that my 
Uncle Wilmot, from Louisiana, started with me to 
visit Niagara, which you know, Nannie, is a long 
way frf>m our own Southern home. You have no 



40 MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 

doubt read, ere this, an account of the burning of 

the Gayleton House, in D City. We were 

in that house the night it was burned ! I do not 
know how long I had been asleep when a wild cry 
of fire awakened me. Springing up hastily, and 
folding a shawl, that happened to be near, about 
me, I hastened out into the hall. It was perfectly 
light with the blaze overhead, and, as I stood there, 
facing, for one brief moment, what seemed to be 
my death, whose face do you think Avas before me ? 
The face of Mildred Wenticorth! Pale and 
frightened I saw her rush down the staircase, 
unheeding, in her frantic haste, the child she had, 
the moment before, held slumbering to her bosom ! 

She has one favorite child, whom she never per 
mits to leave her. I had got half way down the 
steps, and she was in the hall below, when with a 
piercing shriek, she exclaimed, 

" My child ! my child ! for Heaven's sake save 
him !" 

At the same moment she started to ascend the 
steps, but a pair of strong arms drew her back, and 
a voice, which I did not recognize, exclaimed 
sternly, 

" 'Twill be death to go back save yourself !" 
and she was pushed out into the open air. 

I saw the fire above the steps had caught ! I 
thought of the baby's being an angel if it died ; I 
thought perhaps it might be death to go back ; and 
I thought of the great wrong Mildred Wentworth 



MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 41 

had done me, then I turned hastily, and fled up the 
steps ! On the wings of the wind I seemed to fly 
up to that room then I clasped the frightened, 
screaming child in my arms, and with blistered feet 
and scorched face, I found my way out into the 
open air, where I found Mrs. Wentworth insensible 
from grief, at being unable to rescue her child. 
And I, the creature whose life she had made deso 
late, the trusting heart she had broken, bent over 
her, and when she opened her eyes, with a shudder, 
it was I put the child in her arms and said, 

" Your child is safe !" 

"Who saved him?" she screamed. "Tell me 
to whom do I owe my life's gratitude ?" 

And, Nannie, I couldn't help it, but I almost 
shrieked out, "To me Meeta Glenn the girl who 
lored you as a mother, but whom you betrayed, 
and whose life you have made an unprofitable woe !"' 

I did not feel as if I were speaking ; I seemed to 
be listening to a second self telling her this. She 
made no reply, only stared at me, and pressed her 
child up closer with a convulsive grasp. I felt a 
hand upon my shoulder. It was my uncle, who 
lifted me into a carriage and took me away from 
that dense throng that stood gazing, awe-stricken, 
upon the burning building. 

The next day we heard that an epidemic was 
raging in the city, and we left immediately. 

It was not long after this that we were passing 

through D , and put up for the night at the 

4 



42 MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 

H Hotel. I supped in my room the first 

evening of our arrival, and, of course, had no 
opportunity of knowing whether I was in the house 
with any of my friends or acquaintances. It was 
soon after tea that I heard quick footsteps hurry 
ing to and fro in the hall, and opening the door of 
my room I asked a chambermaid, who was passing, 
if anything unusual was the matter. 

" Mrs. Wentworth, the lady in No. 40, has taken 
the cholera, and they think is dying," she replied. 

I did not stop to ask if it could be Mildred 
Wentworth, but hastened across the hall and 
tapped gently at No. 40. There were two or three 
physicians, Mr. Wentworth, and several ladies in 
the room. As the door was opened, Mildred 
Wentworth fixed her fading eyes upon my face as 
she screamed, 

" Meeta Glenn ! Meeta Glenn ! I knew you'd 
come before I died ! Leave the room, all of you ! 
I have something to say !" 

They looked at us wonderingly, and one by one 
went out. A moment afterward the door opened, 
and a man whom I supposed to be Mr. Wentworth 
sat down behind me, and sheltered by the flowing 
window curtains seemed to listen. I did not look 
round. I felt that Mr. Wentworth had come to 
hear his wife's confession, and I appeared uncon 
scious of his presence. She did not see him, and 
I do not think noticed his entrance, for she said, 

" Meeta Glenn, I'm sorry I did so ! Can I make 
any reparation by telling you of it ?" 



MBETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 48 

" Reparation, indeed !" I burst forth impetu 
ously. " Can you give me back the trusting faith, 
the golden hopes and happy heart you have 
destroyed? Can you give me back the Avasted 
years of woe, that might have been glad years of 
usefulness ? And, woman, can you give me back 
the love of Marcus Heith?" 

" No, oh, no !" she groaned. 

" Then I want nothing !" the same fierce spirit 
answered. "What does a death-bed repentance 
avail when the golden moments 'of health were 
employed to strike out all the hope and joy from 
my life ?" 

" You saved my child ! Oh, forgive his mother, 
now she's dying !" she moaned. 

I sunk on my knees, and in the bitter struggling 
of that moment prayed, " Oh, my Father, help me, 
for Christ's sake, to forgive her ! Help, Lord, or I 
perish !" 

After awhile I rose up, almost calmly, and said, 

" Mildred Wentworth, I do forgive you ! May 
God have mercy upon you !" 

"Meeta, Meeta, darling Meeta!" 

It was his voice, Nannie ! It was Marcus Heith 
that had seen me enter that room and had followed 
me when I thought it was Mildred Wentworth's 
husband. Mildred Wentworth is dead, and I'm 
sorry now that I did not sooner conquer the enmity 
I bore her. Marcus came home with me. Every 
thing is explained, the cold, estranging years for- 



44 MEETA GLENN'S LETTERS. 

gotten, and we are to be married when the purple 
glories of the glad October brighten the hills. And 
now, Nannie Ryon, whatever woe may fold its 
sable wings about you, be patient, and hopeful, 
and trusting, having your heart made strong by 
faith that Our Father is a merciful God to them 
that love Him, and some day will lead you out 
from the shadow into the sunshine, even as He has 
done 

MEETA GLENN. 



On My Picture, 

Taken March, 1852. 

Oh childish face ! Your joyous gleam 

Steals softly through my heart and brain, 
Like some fair, mocking, vanished dream, 

Whose splendor may not come again. 
Oh joyous face ! whose careless brow 

Hath all of light Hope's sunshine gave, 
My heart is aching o'er thee now, 

To think how Sorrow's blighting wave 
Hath changed that smiling, youthful face, 

And dimmed with tears those laughing eyes, 
And made the sinless breast a place 

For bitter mem'ries and for sighs. 

I long to clasp thee, little form, 

Up close against my shelt'ring breast, 
As if that clasp could shield from harm 

Or give an aching bosom rest. 
Oh, smiling child, though mother-reft, 

I long to smooth thy shining hair, 
To feel if angel-mother left 

Her tender, dying kisses there. 



46 ON MY PICTURE. 

Oh laughing eyes! Your joyous gleam 
Far more than woe can touch, I ween, 
For life was then a flattering dream, 
Unshaded by what since hath been. 



Smile on, child-face ! Thank God, no change 

Can dim the gleam of thy bright eye ! 
The cruel years can ne'er estrange 

Joy from thy breast to leave a sigh. 
Thou didst not dream, in that gay morn, 

The path thy weary feet should tread, 
Nor felt one pang of grief nor scorn, 

Nor saw the clouds o'er thy young head, 
Nor shrank from life, the untrod maze, 

Nor sighed for bliss that nevermore 
Should greet a wrung heart's anguished gaze 

On earth's dark, raven-haunted shore. 

Thank God ! Thy face with Hope was bright 

Thank Him thy life hath known some joy ; 
A day that smiled before the night 

A bliss unmixed with grief's alloy. 
Thank God ! Gay child, thou couldst not know 

The future leaning down to thee 
A future dark with black'ning woe, 

Whose clankless chain must ever be 
Around the struggling heart, till Death 

The weary life, in pity, see 
In mercy steal the fainting breath 

And set the fettered spirit free. 



The Good of Fiction, 



Some very mock religious, long-faced, strain-at- 
gnat-and swallow-camel people pretend to say they 
don't believe in reading works of fiction. 

It feeds the imagination, unfits us for the reali 
ties of life, &c., &c. Oh, yes! I know all that by 
heart ; you needn't go any further with the philo 
sophical reasoning lest the effort be too much for 
you! 

Just close your lips as injured innocenceyfied as 
you like. I'm bound to have my say ! Now, with 
your hand on your catechism answer, with due 
solemnity, these questions. 

Don't novels teach us patience ? For by reading 
accounts of those interesting damsels who passed 
through unheard of difficulties, and closed the 
chapter by marrying astonishing specimens of mas 
culine perfections, don't we have more patience 
to bear our troubles, so light by comparison, and 
don't it give us a sublime faith that we will cer 
tainly meet our dark-eyed piece of perfection 
(known as "/ate,") some time ? Don't we learn 



48 THE GOOD OP FICTION. 

how women have lived, loved and suffered ? (which 
latter we,, philosophically, resolve not to do.) Don't 
those same works of fiction teach us that " A man 
may smile and smile again, and be a villain," which 
important piece of information keeps us on the 
look out to escape the entertaining fate of a " bro 
ken heart." Don't they teach us to be kind to 
"poor widows," and "helpless orphans." For who 
knows but that a wealthy uncle or long-lost father 
or millionaire husband may figure largely in the 
history of their lives ! 

Don't they try to teach us ('tisn't their fault if 
they don't,) that wealth is " all a fleeting show," 
and that fame is a not-to-be-desired something 
that imparts no warmth to the heart though it 
lends brightness to the brow ? which latter teach 
ings we sometimes see fit to disregard and persist 
in believing that wealth is convenient; and that 
fame is desirable. 

Realities of life ! Bah ! Don't they force them 
selves on us fast enough, ' any how' ? If we can 
soar on the wing of fancy, and with imagination's 
airy brush disengage the wearying dust of reality 
from our souls, and revel in scenes of impossible 
bliss, how happy are we ! What if our beautiful 
day-dreams do crumble to dust ? We enjoyed 
weaving them and new ones spring to life over 
their tombs. Don't rainbows vanish, and blossoms 
wither and song-birds perish ? But love we them 
any the less for that? 



" Now that the Pain is Gone," 



" Now that the pain is gone," I scarce believe 

That " foolish picture you and me 
Together in that moonlit summer" eve, 

Close by that fragrant old rose-tree. 

Your hand was on my shoulder ; I was dumb 
With maddening thoughts that swept my brain, 

But you, how calm and cold you spoke the words, 
" Farewell ! we may not meet again !" 

And yet you drew me near and nearer ; 

How wild I was I could not speak ; 
The moonbeams glistened fairer, clearer ; 

I felt your lips upon my cheek. 

" Faintly and slow adown my burning face," 
That trembled half with woe and bliss, 

There thrilled is thrilling yet will thrill for aye 
That first and unforgotten kiss. 

And yet the thrilling now is full of shame 

A bitter scorn that makes me wild 
To think that you, with plighted faith, should dare 

To trifle with a silly child. 



50 "NOW THAT THE PAIN IS GONE." 

" Now that the pain is gone," the foolish heart, 

I once called broken, well again, 
I'm glad stern Fate decreed that we should part, 

Though childish mem'ries haunt my brain. 

And yet if I should stand with you as then, 
I wonder if your touch would thrill again ? 

" How strange this is ! I think my madness lasts, 
Although I'm sure I have forgot the pain." 



A Myrtle Reverie, 



" I don't think trouble would ever make me go 
insane." 

No, you oyster shell creature, with about as 
much emotion as a clam, I don't think anything 
could make you insane! What difference do 
harsh words and rude neglect make to you? 
With your thick skull and dull brain you can 
hardly comprehend the meaning of the words. 

You " go insane !" Of course, you couldn't do 
it any more than a turtle could write poetry. How 
could you understand the passionate agonizing 
yearnings that a sensitive nature sends forth for 
love and sympathy ? How could you understand 
the timid shrinking that delicate, high strung 
natures feel when brought in contact with such 
"cheaply organized" concerns as yourself? 

Oliver W. Holmes says, " Stupidity often saves 
a person from going mad." You are safe ! Insan 
ity can never trouble you while that impenetrable 
armor of stupidity surrounds you. 

Enough to eat and drink a place to sleep and 



52 A MYRTLE KEVEBIE. 

something to wear ; and life is all happiness to 
you. No, not happiness either you no more com 
prehend that, than you do insanity. You enjoy a 
kind of stupid content if your animal wants are 
satisfied but that thrilling rapture that sensitive 
minds experience you know nothing about. You 
have no bright fame dreams looming up in the dim 
distance ! You cherish no glorious hopes of future 
greatness so, of course, you never felt any pain at 
seeing your "dearest hopes decay." You never 
felt the agonizing pain of heart-strings forced 
rudely from their twining clasp round a loved one. 
Emotionally speaking, you possess no such article 
as a heart, and, of course, you experience no suffer 
ing from it. 

"But my mind is too strong to give way at 
trouble." 

Do you see that huge, unsightly rock that is 
merely an encumbrance on yon green sward? 
Well you may hurl your cane at it with all your 
strength, and does it move or tumble ? But hurl, 
with half the force, your cane at that exquisitely 
moulded vase, and it is shattered in a thousand 
pieces. 

Happy creature ! You'll never go insane. Nei 
ther will an oyster ! 



ON A PICTURE IN THE NEW YORK ILLUSTRATED NEWS. 



" The Sentry's Christmas," 



" Silence like a gentle river, 

Steals along the shores of night," 
And the moonbeams softly quiver 

With their " wan and misty light." 
Memories sweet, of childhood's gladness, 

Haunt my yearning heart and brain, 
As I muse beneath the brightness 

Of the starlight's golden rain. 

Now there comes a vision, mother, 

Stealing upwards through my tears, 
Of the angel face that brightened 

All my boyhood's happy years. 
And your eyes seem shining, mother, 

In the calm stars overhead, 
Like the light from eyes, my mother, 

Of a young bride newly wed. 



54 " THE SENTRY'S CHRISTMAS." 

Oh, your parting words, sweet mother, 

Haunt my lonely spirit now, 
And your last fond kiss is burning 

O'er the throbbing of my brow. 
Now I fancy gay lights shining 

In the distant sweet home-place ; 
Yet perchance a shadow darkens 

Every sweet remembered place. 

Shadowed as each wonders, mother, 

Where your first-born is to-night, 
And perchance a fond prayer flutters 

Upward through the moon's wan light. 
I am braver now, my mother, 

Thinking of that whispered prayer, 
E'en though far from thee, my mother, 

Still I've God^s protecting care ! 

With His love I'm safe, my mother, 

As when in my cradle bed 
Soft you laid the tresses, mother, 

Of your baby's golden head. 
And if I should fall, sweet mother, 

Battling for a nation's right, 
I shall meet thee, angel mother, 

Where there comes no chilling night. 



Almost a Eomance in Eeal Life, 



It is a fact well known to phrenologists, physiolo 
gists and learned pedagogues, that curiosity is the 
predominant organ on feminine heads. This organ 
was excited to " fever heat," in the little village of 
B , by the appearance of a dark-eyed mascu 
line, whose name was well, the most soaring, 
romance-inspiring name imaginable, who walked 
with downcast eyes and folded arms, and a most 
enormously long face; (of course I don't mean 
that he used these to aid him in walking ; I mean 
simply that these accompanied him in his walks) 
who dressed as if his " soul's salvation" depended 
en the fit of bis clothes and the turn of his collar. 
This interesting gent gave pathetic hints of a " boy 
ish indiscretion," a " stern father," a " princely 
home," whose walls could " tell a tale" of a " dis 
carded son." Sympathy was excited for the ci-de 
vant nobleman, " banker's heir," and nobody knew 
what all. But in vain, the gossips held a solemn 
conclave and appointed a committee of investiga 
tion to pierce the mystery surrounding him. In 
vain young ladies brought forth their artillery of 



56 ALMOST A ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 

attractions, i. e. dimples, ringlets, " beau-catchers," 
smiles, sighs and tears, to induce this entertaining 
masculine to yield his heart, and ergo his secret ! 
He remained shrouded in mystery, and his dark 
lashes drooped more romantically than ever over 
the splendor haunting orbs ! " Rural retreats" did 
not agree with our hero, consequently he became a 
victim to ennui. Something must be done to 
relieve it. So the clustering locks clustered more 
bewitchingly than ever round the " marble brow ;" 
fast horses were hired and young ladies received a 
proposal of marriage. Even the modest, quiet 
widows came in for a share of his " heart and hand." 
(After much research the former article has not 
been found.) The consequence of all this " love 
making" was as might be expected. The poor 
moon was stared out of countenance by romantic 
maids and widows. The rates of postage rose on 
account of the great number of billets doux that 
passed. And yet the history of his life came not! 
With the patience of Job and the meekness of 
Moses this astonishing masculine awaited the abate 
ment of " an angry father's wrath," when he (afore 
mentioned hero) would " disclose all," and prove to 
each and every feminine that she must have been 
" born under a lucky star" or she could never have 

won the love of (it were profanation to write 

the name !) The breezes continued to " fan fevered 
brows ;" the dewdrops seemed never to be weary 
of sparkling on the rose leaves ; the clover blossoms 



ALMOST A ROMANCE IX REAL LIFE. 57 

very industriously nodded to the daisies ; and the 
sunshine crept down the long hills to kiss the violets 
blooming in the valley, and still " fair young crea 
tures" waited patiently, at least some of them did, 
for the wedding day. The denouement came at last ! 
Our hero became enraged because one young lady, 
in a fit of " hope-deferred-maketh-the-heart-sick"- 
ness, ventured to disclose the very delicate, tender 
and sentimental soft nonsense with which she had 
been entertained. Did you ever see the water in a 
tea-kettle hiss and foam and splutter, and finally boil 
over? If so, you can form some faint idea of the 
rage that took possession of aforesaid tastily-gotten- 
up gent The public were amazed by the astonish 
ing declaration that with all his " love-making" he 
" did not want to marry /" (The sequel will show 
why!) The "fair young creatures" alluded to, 
drooped and pined as "old maidism" loomed up 
frightfully in the dim distance. Widows tore their 
luxuriant tresses and bit their finger nails as report 
brought to their ears the sayings of the interesting 
mixture of " marble brow," " dark locks," " Lyon's 
Kathairon," " tight-fitting coat," and prunella gait 
ers." Actions for damages and "breach of promise" 
cases were anticipated when a new character ap 
peared, and our mysterious love-making hero proved 
to be something so unromantic as a runaway hus 
band ! 



58 ALMOST A ROMANCE IN KEAL LIFE. 

" Oh, the sobs that rent the air ! 
Oh, the sight of torn-out hair ! 
Oh, the tears that fell like rain ! 
Oh, the hearts that broke with pain !" 

would fill a common sized coffee sack. The organ 
of caution was tolerably well developed on the 
cranium of our hero, and the assertion that he " did 
not want to marry" any of those maids or widows 
who had beguiled his weary moments, only proved 
that he considered bigamy a dangerous breach of 
etiquette and had not sufficient daring to try it ! I 
suppose it is neqdless to add that the above men 
tioned injured females have retired from society in 
disgust ! 



Indiana, 

[Dedicated to W. T. Merrell.] 

Sacred soil of Indiana 1 

On thy sunny shores are pressed 
Homeless feet that flee the terror 

Of Kentucky's wild unrest. 
From their homes, proud Indiana, 

Wives and children come to thee, 
While the forms their hearts hold dearest, 

" Fight like freemen to be free." 

From thy shores, proud Indiana, 

Braves, like Autumn-leaves, have poured, 
Seeking death or glory ever 

Where the battle-thunders roared. 
Father, son and manly brother 

Ponv, a steady ceaseless throng, 
While each anguished wife and mother 

Seeks to chime a battle song. 

Tries to sing while lips grow paler, 
Weary eyes are dim with tears, 



60 INDIANA. 

Loving bosoms throb and quiver 
With a thousand crushing fears. 

Yet thy sons, brave Indiana, 
From the battle falter not, 

And their life-blood, Indiana, 
Makes the field a sacred spot. 

Now a nation, Indiana, 

Binds thy brow with laurels bright, 
Turns her grateful eyes, all tearful, 

Where thy noble patriots fight. 
Faces fair with mother-kisses, 

Eyes too strong for faltering tears, 
March to battle brave and steady, 

Wearing proudly boyish years. 

Golden dreams of joy they buried, 

Tender faces bravely left, 
And, for Freedom's sacred glory, 

Loving hearts and homes were reft. 
And the Angels hover o'er them, 

Where a mother goeth not, 
Bearing up each brave young spirit 

Breathed out on the battle-spot. 

Noble sons of Indiana ! 

On to victory and fame, 
Ye have crowned your State's fair forehead 

With a bright and deathless name. 



INDIANA. 61 

Yes, a nation, Indiana ! 

Binds thy brow with laurels bright, 
Turns her grateful eyes, all tearful, 

"Where thy noble patriots fight. 

SEPTEMBER 23d, 1862. 



Married Men, 



Of all the hateful, despisable, conceited, would- 
be-sarcastic, unbearable bores, "married men" are 
unquestionably the greatest ! Trying to be so en- 
trancingly witty. Catching up your every remark 
as if the chief end of their existence was to con 
vince you that your expressions were extremely 
awkward and their perceptions remarkably acute. 
If you get a letter, they know, at a glance, the 
postmark, and torment you unmercifully by alluding 
to it in the presence of masculine friends that you 
are anxious should imagine you were ignorant of 
any " admirer's" existence save theirs. 

They're always coming into the parlor at the 
wrong time; interrupting your most entertaining 
discussions on the human heart, by some horrid 
allusion to " Lincoln" or " Jeff Davis." Then, if 
you retreat to the piazza, just as you are fully 
launched into an interestingly sentimental conversa 
tion, your faculties are suddenly paralyzed by the 
faint odor of a cigar. It comes nearer, and your 
voice insensibly grows sharp and impatient with 



MARRIED MEN. 63 

vexation. The spell is broken ! The entertaining 
piece of masculine flesh that you've been laboring 
to fascinate, looks at you in astonishment as if he 
didn't know your voice could take so unpleasant a 
tone; and just as you are beginning to realize that 
a new effort will have to be made ere the "proposal" 
comes, you look up and that horrid bore of a mar 
ried man is just taking a vacant seat near you, as 
if to more fully accomplish the purpose of suffocat 
ing you with cigar smoke. You look at him with 
an abhorrence which you feel that "words can never 
express." He takes it calmly and goes on to discuss 
" probable results of secession." How gladly you 
would acknowledge his " independence," if he'd 
only secede from that piazza and leave you to help 
arrange, or rather agree to a " union" But although 
he is "ashamed of KENTUCKY for not seceding" 
yet he has no intention of accommodating you with 
his individual and immediate secession, but forces 
you to acknowledge his obnoxious " independence" 
of your opinion. He expects you to have the fore 
thought, prudence and self-denial of a woman, yet 
treats you with about as much gallantry and con 
sideration as if you were just turning your sixth 
year. He monopolizes the very seat you wanted 
and permits you to ride backward, though you have 
frequently assured him that such a proceeding 
never fails to give you the headache. Stuffs the 
newspapers, that you havn't read, in his coat pocket 
and goes off down town, while you wait impatiently 



64 MARRIED MEN. 

his return, and force what you fancy is an amiable 
smile on your countenance as you ask if he has 
" finished that paper." He tries to frown anxiously, 
makes a frantic dive into his pocket, then replies, 
with a horrid grin of half-concealed triumph, that 
he -" actually left it at the restaurant" Shades of 
Minerva! If you only had the strength to seize 
him by the shoulders and shake him thoroughly ! 
But you havn't, so what's the use of talking? Still 
you can't help .thinking what a long record you 
have against that man ; and if you should be an 
old maid you know perfectly well at whose door the 
blame will lie. How often you've started up from 
a delicious dream of matrimonial bliss, to hear him 
" wonder if that baby^s mother can't keep it quiet/ 1 " 1 
and when that " baby's mother" sits down, wearied 
and worn with trying to keep " baby" and baby's 
father quiet, you look at her and try to contemplate 
composedly old maidism. And when you read his 
old love-letters that his wife shows you with a kind 
of bitter, duped look, and think of his protestations 
of undying affection, is. it any wonder you get dis 
gusted with the whole male tribe and reject "Fred" 
the next day, after counting up, half nervously, the 
years that must elapse ere you'll be called an "old 
maid" If you could only jump into old maidism 
as one jumps into a cold bath, it might be borne ; 
but this gradual coming on, and that married man's 
horrid sneers at " vinegar-faced old maids," make 
you shiver and revolve the question over and over, 



MARRIED MEN. 65 

" To marry or not to marry." But I might write 
until the " independence of the SOUTHERN CONFED 
ERACY" was acknoicledged, and I could neither 
change the disposition of " married men" nor con 
vey an idea of what I've suffered from them. 



Happy New Year, 



" There was a time when I could say the words 
joyously, hopefully ; but now I, Mercy Ellsworth, 
twenty-five years old, wrinkled and faded, expect 
no happiness. Hopes all dead heart frozen no 
body to love me, nobody to care for me !" 

A tear fell down on my hand as I spoke thus, one 
New Year's morning, that now lies back, very far 
back, in the past. How green and fresh was the 
memory of a New Year's eight years before, when 
my dearest friend, Brenda Griffith, came to spend a 
month with me. Oh, I can almost feel her arms 
about me now, as they twined themselves when I 
whispered, in tones that trembled with happiness, 
the sweet secret of my betrothal to Malcolm Chaun- 
cey. 

Brenda Griffith! Brenda Griffith! not till the seal 
of death is on my brow can I forget how you drew 
me to the mirror and seemed mentally comparing 
the glorious beauty of your features with rny pale, 
timid face that Malcolm said was made beautiful 
by the great brown eyes that flashed over it I 



HAPPY NEW YEAR. 67 

knew it could not be made beautiful ; but oh, Mal 
colm ! did I love you any the less for telling me 
so? No, you must have known that I did not, 
when I lifted up to you my eyes, that dimmed with 
tender tears as I listened ! 

Why need I linger here, e'en though the memory 
winds of that time, that blow up to me, are very 
fragrant ? 

It was with a great deal of pride that I presented 
Malcolm Chauncey, my betrothed, to Brenda Grif 
fith, my dearest friend. They were each pleased 
with the other, and I was glad that it was so. Day 
after day I saw them together ; but Brenda ! 
Brenda ! the angels know how I trusted you ! 

The day had gone with solemn footsteps, down 
to the night when Malcolm Chauncey held my 
hands in his and said : 

" Mercy Ellsworth, until I saw Brenda Griffith, I 
thought I loved you better than all the earth. Now 
I know that I have loved you only as a sister, and 
that I love Brenda Griffith with a love of whose 
power I never before had a conception! Will you 
forgive me, Mercy darling, and be my little sister ?" 

Malcolm Chauncey, the face that grew stern with 
despairing woe, as I lifted it up to your searching 
eyes, you thought very calm and indifferent when 
my lips said : 

"I will be your sister, Malcolm Chauncey !" 

The kiss that dropped down on my forehead was 
very tender, as you whispered : 

" God bless you, Mercy darling sister /" 



68 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

It's a sweet name, Malcolm, but not the name you 
promised to call me, and for which my soul so 
yearned ! I woke very early the next morning, and, 
standing by my window, I saw Malcolm Chauncey 
leaving the house. So he was going without one 
farewell to me me, who loved him better than 
life! 

"Have you no word of farewell for me, Mal 
colm ?" My voice was strangely calm as I stole to 
his side unperceived. 

" Mercy, Mercy, I am wretched indeed ! Pity 
me, little sister !" 

His tones floated down to my heart, striking 
mournful echoes. I knew it all then ; Brenda had 
refused him ! The thoughts were very bitter that 
entered my soul, and framed the image of Brenda 
Griffith once set there so tenderly. 

" God will help you to bear it, Malcolm," I whis 
pered. There was a quivering kiss dropped down 
on my forehead, a great warm tear on ray cheek, 
and then he was gone ! 

I will not tell you how I upbraided Brenda, my 
false, false friend; nor how she replied, with cold, 
sneering taunts. Had she loved Malcolm, I believe 
I could have forgiven her for winning him from 
me; but to make two lives miserable merely to 
gratify her inordinate love of flirting, seemed more 
than I could forgive. So she, too, left me, and my 
life seemed going deeper into the shadow. Two 
years afterward, father and mother both died, and I 



HAPPY NEW YEAR. 69 

was left alone in the grey cottage where I was born. 
There I lived until my life went out to meet its 
twenty-fifth birthday. I sat thinking of it all that 
morning, and my heart seemed all darkness, because 
not set with the " radiant jewel Love." Very rebel- 
liously throbbed my heart, and the sunshine of the 
" happy new year" stole in at the window, as if to 
brighten the room that, seen through my tears, 
seemed very dull and misty. There was a hasty 
knock on the door, and glancing out of the window, 
I saw that the stage had stopped before the gate. 

" Does Miss Mercy Ellsworth live here ?" asked 
a short, thick man, as I opened the door. 

Yes," I replied. 

Without waiting another moment, he walked 
briskly back to the stage, and jerking the door 
open, lifted out a little girl apparently about six 
years old. 

" I was with Mrs. Ashley, mum, when she died." 
he said, addressing me, " and she sold the very bed 
she died on to get money to send her child to you. 

" Mrs. Ashley ? Mrs. Ashley ?" said I, thinking 
there was some mistake. 

" Yes, yes," returned the man, half impatiently. 
"She said you and she were girls together; and 
here's a letter she sent you," he concluded, produc 
ing one from the depths of his great coat pocket, as 
he loosened the child's grasp from his and turned 
briskly away. 

" Come in," I said, mechanically holding out my 



70 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

hand to the child ; for one glance into her face told 
me who it was that had sent her unto me. 

Who ever had such dark, glorious eyes, such a 
wealth of raven ringlets, such a small, curved 
mouth, that sent sunny smiles drifting away 'mid 
the dimples of the soft, rosy cheeks? None other 
than Brenda Griffith. And the letter I held in my 
trembling fingers looked up in my face pleadingly. 
Yet I laid it softly down, and warmed and fed the 
orphan child ere I broke the seal of her mother's 
letter, and read : 

" Mercy Ellsworth, Mercy Ellsworth ! your name 
rings up through my heai't with a reproach keener 
than the winter winds that will soon blow harshly 
round my orphan child. You loved me once, Mer 
cy, and God knows I loved you ; but in an evil 
hour, when my good angel had spread her snowy 
wings and floated afar olf, I resolved to win from 
you the light of your life. I cannot write of this 
now, Mercy Ellsworth ; you know it all alas, how 
bitterly ! But, by the memory of those innocent 
days of our childhood, ere the tempter came, when 
I was truly your friend, I pray you be merciful to 
me in this, my dying hour. It is strange I should 
ask such a thing, and yet 'tis because I know you 
so well that I dare say Mercy Ellsworth, take my 
orphan child and be a mother unto her, and may 
God be merciful to you according as you deal with 
the child of BRENDA ASHLEY." 

So I took the child that came to me that New 



HAPPY NEW YEAB. 71 

Year's morning, and resolved to be very patient and 
loving. All the wrong that her mother had done 
unto me I buried ; and as it is easier to love one 
who has wronged us than one we have wronged, rny 
heart turned with its olden tenderness toward the 
memory of Brenda, and I tried to forget how she 
had shadowed my life. 

Brenda Ashley, the child, had a great deal of 
her mother's disposition. I could see it in the proud 
curve of her beautiful lip, in the coquettish toss of 
her small Grecian head, in the arch glancing of her 
glorious eyes. She had a pretty, affectionate way, 
that was very winning, even though you felt that it 
lacked the warmth and real feeling usually found in 
childhood. Yet, for that gay-voiced child, over the 
withered branches of my soul blossomed a new 
love, that was very fragrant and tender. I think 
she returned it in some measure that is, she loved 
me as well as her thoroughly selfish nature would 
allow her to love any one. I think she was at least 
grateful for my kindness. 

She attended the village school until she was 
fourteen years old; then she wished to atte'nd a 
fashionable boarding school. When I gave my 
consent, she threw her arms about me and said: 

" Oh, Aunt Mercy ! how can I ever repay you 
for being so kind to me?" 

The beautiful flushed face upturned to mine re 
minded me of another Brenda, whose soft arms had 
circled round me so oft and thinking of it, the 
sharp, bitter pleading broke up from my heart: 



72 HAPPY NEW TEAE. 

" Love me, Brenda ! only love me /" 

" Oh, Aunty, I do love you !" she answered ; but 
I knew, from her look and tones, that 'twas not the 
deep, tender, abiding, self-sacrificing love for which 
my soul so panted. In a moment more she was 
talking of dresses and bonnets, and a thousand 
other things that she would need, and " must have" 
There were a few weeks of preparations, and then, 
in the same old stage-coach that brought her to me 
eight years before, she departed with a gay-spoken 
" Good-bye, Aunt Mercy !" and I, the desolate wo 
man, turned back with gaze grown dim from very 
tenderness. She was all I had to love, and no 
wonder the house seemed desolate without her. 

Occasionally there came dainty, hurried epistles, 
with a word now and then of endearment, to preface 
a request. Then vacation, when the bright crea 
ture came home, bringing gay companions, with 
whom time would not drag so heavily as Brenda 
said it did when she had nothing but the "flowers 
and Aunt Mercy's mournful brown eyes." 

I determined to be patient and loving, so that on 
the last day, when our grave-clothes rustled 'gainst 
each other, I could say : " Brenda, I have tried to 
be a mother unto the child whom thou didst give 
me!" The years wore on, and while the life of 
Brenda Ashley blossomed up to its womanhood, 
mine drifted down deeper 'mid the shadows of de 
spair, and the world called me an " old maid." Even 
Brenda asked me how it came to be so ; but I could 
not tell her. 



HAPPY NEW YEAB. 73 

'Twas when her seventeenth birthday had come 
silently down from the future, to meet her, that 
Brenda Ashley was pronounced " finished" by her 
teachers. Yes, she could paint, and draw, and sing, 
and waltz, and do a thousand other things. She 
had learned a great many lessons, but among them 
all had she learned one of patience, of meekness, 
or self-denial? 

She had read numberless novels of life's " trials 
and triumphs," but when I fain would tell her again* 
the sweet stoiy of divine love, she said pettishly : 
" Oh, auntie, it's so dull ! Please don't talk to me 
of it !" 

She had been home about two months, when she 
received a letter from her mother's sister, who had 
"just learned where she was attended the school 
examination, and was very proud that her niece had 
acquitted herself so triumphantly, and would be 
pleased to have her visit New York, and spend the 
ensuing winter." 

Brenda was in ecstacies. 

" Oh, auntie ! it will be so nice !" said she, seem 
ing to take my consent for granted. 

" I don't know, Brenda," sajd I, " you will lead 
so gay a life that I fear you will wander further 
from Him who died for you 1" 

In an instant the bright face was clouded, and 
she said pettishly, 

" Oh, Aunt Mercy, you can't make me religious. 
The Lord only can do that, and if he don't see fit 

6 



74 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

to turn my heart, I think you'd just as well let it 
alone." 

I knew that further words were unnecessary, and 
yet they came into my heart, and my lips spoke 
them " Lead us not into temptation." 

"Now, dear auntie, there'll be no more tempta 
tion there for me to do wrong, than there is here, 
for after I have seen the follies of .fashionable 
society, I shall learn to despise it?" said Brenda, 
while over her face swept a shade of determination 
that I knew no arguments could remove. So it was 
decided that she should go. I did not dread being 
alone now as I had done even though in solitude 
the wings of many haunting memories shadowed 
my heart. 

The golden and purple splendors of autumn hung 
over the hills, when I received a letter from Brenda, 
that she was going to be married. It was thus she 
wrote of it : 

" Aunt Mercy, I am going to surprise you, and 
perhaps vex you a little, for not first asking your 
consent, but I knew you couldn't withhold it, so I 
didn't wait to ask. I am going to be married! 
Every one says it wttl be a " splendid match." To 
be sure my affianced is nearly forty, but he's hand 
some, affectionate and, oh, auntie, so rich. Your 
little Brenda will live like a queen, and be so happy ! 
Aunt Fannie wants you to come on immediately. 
My trousseau will be superb !" 

I leaned down my head and wept as there came 



HAPPY NEW YEAR. 75 

unto me a vision of a shattered dream of happiness 
that once beckoned me on joyously to the future. 
How different was my glorious love-dream from the 
glittering ambition-dream of Brenda Ashley. 
, I found Brenda in a state of excitement almost 
bordering on distraction. She, the dependent or 
phan to be suddenly elevated to rank and wealth. 
'Twas too much happiness to her ambitious nature. 

"But you haven't told me his name, Brenda," 
said I. 

" Haven't I ? Well, I'll declare," she laughed. 
" It's Chauncey Malcolm Chauncey." 

From the uttermost depths of my soul came a 
groan that I could not repress, and then I fainted. 
They attributed it to my journey, and said, "the 
fatigue was too much for me." Yes, my soul was 
very weary, but its longing eyes looked vainly for 
rest. I met Malcolm Chauncey very calmly, that 
he might not suspect that I loved him with a love 
deeper than the calm, sisterly affection that he had 
requested me to have in the far back "long ago." 

'Twas a week before Christmas that I sat alone 
in the drawing room. Brenda was to be married 
on New Year's night, and I sat thinking of it. So 
absorbed was I in my reverie that I was not aware 
of the entrance of Malcolm Chauncey until he 
stood close beside me. His face was pale and the 
voice husky that said, 

" Will you read this, Mercy ?" 

I bowed assent as he handed me a letter, one 



76 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

glance at which told me 'twas Brenda's writing, 
and these were the words she had traced, 

"MA CHERE JULIE : If at any period of my life 
I have murmured at the decrees of that accommo 
dating person, familiarly known as Fate, I do as 
sure you that at this moment I realize the folly of 
having so done. But you're impatient: "Well, 
prepare yourself for a startling disclosure. I am 
going to be married in about two weeks. Julie, 
chere, every one says he's " the greatest catch of 
the season." I should say for several " seasons." 
Don't make another such a grimace as that, for I 
tell you he is rich, and all the girls are dying for 
him. 

" By the way, there's almost a romance connected 
with his history. You know I've always lived with 
an old maid whom I call ' Aunt Mercy.' Well, 
when she was young, she was betrothed to Mr. 
Chauncey, and he fell in love with my mother, who, 
of course, didn't want him, as he was poor then, 
and so he left for ' parts unknown,' and it seems 
Aunt Mercy has loved him ever since. 

"There, haven't I epitomized what might be 
woven into an entertaining romance. Now of 
course you're asking, 'How did you find it out, 
Brenda ?' Patience, ma chere ! I went into Aunt 
Mercy's room the other day, and found her trunk 
unlocked. Now I knew that she always kept a 
journal, and I remembered how she fainted when 
I told her his name. So into the trunk I dived, 



HAPPT NEW YKAB. 77 

and after some little search found the journal. I 
wish you could read it. I declare it made me cry, 
and so worked upon my sympathies that I was 
almost tempted to give up Mr. Chauncey to her, 
thereby making a heroine of myself; but, fortu 
nately, ' common sense' stepped in and saved me. 
So I slipped the journal quietly back, and kept my 
OAvn counsel, yet I did feel so sorry for Aunt Mer 
cy when I saw her watching Mr. Chauncey so 
wistfully when he didn't know it. I wish I could 
love him as she does, but " 

The sentence was not finished, yet I could guess 
the rest. 

" Is it true, Mercy ? Do you love me ?" 

The face that shone down on me was very pale 
and eager. 

"Why do you ask, Malcolm? Why do you 
ask?" said I, as my tears dropped down on the 
letter of Brenda Ashley. 

" Because I love you, Mercy Ellsworth." 

I do not believe that if a shining-robed angel 
from the far above had whispered to me admittance 
to the " holy land," my heart could have throbbed 
to wilder bliss than it did when the words, " Be 
came I love you, Mercy Ellsworth /" dropped down 
on the brow of my soul, and set it with radiant 
gems. 

" It is true, Malcolm !" I spoke the words very 
softly, but he heard them, and folding me close in 
his arms, just as he had done years before, he whis 
pered, 



78 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

"Mercy, my beloved, God has been merciful 
unto me." 

For a time we two sat very still, and there was 
no word spoken between us, but our tears dropped 
down soft and warm as summer rain. 

" All my life, Mercy, my heart had felt its need 
of love," he said at length, 

" Years ago, I loved you truly, deeply, but the 
glorious beauty of Brenda Griffith infatuated me, 
and she first made me believe that I loved you 
only as a sister. The wild passion I felt for her I 
called love. 'Twas not love, my darling, but I 
knew it not then. I was almost maddened by her 
cruel rejection, and tried to forget it in the busy 
world. I devoted all my energies to amassing 
wealth, but as the years wore on, my life cried out 
in its loneliness for love. I met your niece, and 
though I could not love her, yet I was flattered by 
her evident preference for me, and so I proposed 
Unking my life with her radiant girlhood. When I 
saw you I felt the old tenderness rushing over me, 
but I was betrothed ; and you greeted me so calmly 
that I could not think you loved me other than as 
a brother, so I did not seek to revive the affection 
which I once cherished for you. Last evening, 
Brenda's maid, who you know can read and write, 
brought me this letter. I suppose she became 
offended with her mistress, and took this method 
of revenge. Now, Mercy, my beloved, I know 
that you are the only woman whom I have ever 



HAPPY NEW YEAR. 



79 



loved with a love on which the angels smile. Will 
you be my wife ?" 

And in the solemn hush of the twilight, I an 
swered, 

" I will be your wife, Malcolm Chauncey." 
Of course, Brenda and her aunt were very in 
dignant, but they were somewhat mollified when 
Malcolm settled on Brenda a comfortable income. 
Two years afterward she married a wealthy fop, 
and I suppose lived very happily with him. Two 
weeks after I had promised to be the wife of Mal 
colm Chauncey, we were married; and oh, the 
boughs of my soul blossomed over with hope and 
happiness, and swayed joyously as they welcomed 
the "Happy New YearF 



Song of other Davs, 



There was a time, in hours gone by, 

When lightest tone from thee could bring 

The flash of gladness to mine eye ; 
And o'er my cheek the roses fling. 

There was a time my inmost soul 

Thrilled wildly at a glance from thee ; 

And heart, and brain, and being, all 
Joined in one joyous revelry. 

* 

There was a time one face, one form 
Forever haunted dreams of mine 

Ah ! in those happy days, now gone, 
The face, the form I lov'd, was thine. 



Thy name it was a cherished word, 
I thought thee then a millionaire, 

But, ah ! how soon we parted when 
I found thee but a baker's heir ! 



My Heart's Story. 



All night long the Autumn rain-drops 

Beat against my window-pane, 
While my heart throbbed out its story 

In the pauses of the rain. 
And along the misty uplands, 

Shadowed in my soul and dim, 
Rang a low and plaintive music 

Like a dying mother's hymn 

When she leaves her heart's best jewels 

In the loveless world alone, 
When she listens half to angels, 

Hah to bleeding hearts that moan ; 
Yes, I listened to the rain-drops 

Beating 'gainst my window-pane, 
Thought I how they knocked to enter, 

Knocked the dreary night in vain. 

So I knocked, oh form I worshipped, 
Knocked with aching heart and brain, 



82 MY HEART'S STORY. 

Yet knocked at thy soul's stern portals, 
Vainly as the Autumn-rain. 

For a gentle blue-eyed vision, 
Fairer, lovelier than mine, 

Haunted all the dreaming moments 
And the waking hours of thine. 

When I listened to her praises, 

Spoken in the Summer time, 
Oh, they struck upon my life-chords 

Like a pealing funeral chime 
Striking out the joy and beauty, 

Quenching all its golden light, 
Till my heart was like a valley 

In a bleak December night; 

Save no star-beams wandered o'er it, 

Bending from a sky of blue 
No, 'twas dark and cold and cheerless, 

With its mantling Upas dew. 
When the roses dropped their petals, 

Fragrant with a dewy red, 
Then thy dainty blue-eyed vision 

Slumbered with the early dead. 

And my love too faded slowly, 
Like a trembling morning star, 

When the daylight comes in beauty 
Through a crimson Eden-bar 



MY HEART'S STORY. 83 

Faded, for no dead lovds ashes 

Will my soul take for a crown, 
And ray heart holds one more gravestone 
'Mid its shadows dim and brown. 



My Sister Nellie, 



" Put your arm around me once more and press 
your kisses on my cheek, little sister, for I may 
never come back to you any more." 

It was my sister Nellie that spoke thus one au 
tumn morning, and the tears dropped down on my 
forehead as the words died out from her lips. She 
folded me close in her arms, and the light of her 
beautiful eyes shone down on my face like the far 
off radiance of summer stars. 

" Oh, Nellie, Nellie, you will come back to us, I 
know. Don't cry. They will be kind to you, and 
you will be making so much money," I said, as I 
put my arms around her and nestled my cheek on 
her bosom. 

"Money yes, money. You, my darling, will 
try very hard to learn music and painting, now we 
shall have money to pay for your instruction," and 
Nellie's eyes looked fondly down on me with a 
mournfulness that told of the great trial she was 
undergoing for my sake. 

" Yes, Nellie, I will learn so fast, and then I can 



MY SISTER NELLIE. 85 

teach, too. I'll improve so much you'll hardly 
know me in a year," I answered, for I knew there 
was no way to console her half so effectual as the 
speaking of my own improvement. 

"A year, darling yes, a whole year to listen 
vainly for loving tones and familiar footfalls. Pray 
for me, sister," said she in a sweet voice, tremu 
lously. 

"Our Father who art in Heaven," were the 
words in my heart, but, though they struggled for 
utterance, my sobs choked them. A moment her 
hands were clasped, the tearful eyes raised upward, 
while the trembling lips murmured inaudible words 
that I knew were a petition for help. A long last 
kiss and Nellie, darling sister, was borne from us 
to be a governess in the family of a Southern plant 
er, who knew not how much of our hearts went out 

to his stately palace with Nellie. 

****** 

" Cannot I bear a little for your dear sakes, who 
are all I have on earth, when Jesus, our Saviour, 
suffered crucifixion for the salvation of those who 
persecuted Him unto death ? Darling sister, pray 
for me, that I faint not by the wayside, but ' hold 
out faithful to the end.' " And so her letter closed 
a long letter, wherein she had poured out her full 
heart to her loved ones. 

The proud, timid spirit was tortured almost be 
yond endurance by the petty tyranny of a woman 
of fashion, who had the power that gold, potent 



86 



MY SISTER NELLIE. 



gold, can give. The letter was delayed so long 
that I did not get it until two weeks after it was 
written. That night I sobbed myself to sleep 
thinking of Nellie. 

The autumn sunshine streaming in at my win 
dow, and the shrill voice of my pet canary led me 
out from the dim dream-land where, with clasped 
hands, I had been talking with sister Nellie. 

We had just seated ourselves at the breakfast- 
table, when our cottage door echoed a quick, sharp 
knock. I sprang to it and received a telegram. A 
great fear knocked loudly at the door of my heart 
as my father broke the seal. The paleness of death 
crept over his face and he clutched a chair for 
support. 

" What is it, father ?" brother and I asked, as 
he gazed at us in agony. 

" Nellie insane !" were the two words his white 
lips gasped out the two words that made earth all 
darkness to us. Oh, trembling fingers made hasty 
preparations for father's journey to our darling; 
and brother and I gazed out on the autumn sun 
shine, and waited desolately for news from Nellie. 
It came at last. They told us she was " insane on 
the subject of religion !" That her lips repeated 
promise after promise of God's protection, that her 
heart had cherished, for consolation, in her great 
loneliness. While ever and anon her crushed heart 
sent out the desolate moan, " Father ! sister ! bro 
ther ! where are you ?" 



MY SISTEB NELLIE. 87 

We went hastily and strangers stood round and 
looked on Nellie dead. They only knew that a 
pair of gentle grey eyes were closed in death ; two 
soft dainty lips lying together in one long, loving 
kiss ; two pale, small hands folded over a stilled 
heart; and the golden brown hair resting on the 
white temples that would never again throb wearily 
or beat joyously. To them it was only a stranger, 
dead in the full bloom of womanhood ! To us it 
was Nellie our Nellie lying there with the death 
dews on her brow, and the sweet voice forever 
hushed. 

Oh ! my darling ! Kings might envy thee thy 
calm sleeping thy glorious immortality thy home 
in Heaven ! 



Where the Purple Shadows Sleep, 



Where the purple shadows sleep 
In the twilight's misty gloom, 

Where the winds are searching vainly 
For the Summer's vanished bloom, 

'Neath the starlight's solemn splendors 
Is a lone, neglected tomb. 

Now the night-birds flutter o'er it 
With their broken, quivering wings ; 

Broken, bleeding, torn and trembling, 
Weary of earth's mocking things 

Weary of the moon that shudders 
With the mournful light she flings. 

Weary of the snow-crowned mountains, 
Bright, yet cold and frozen things, 

Weary of the day that ever 
To the night her glory brings ; 

Weary yes, like the pale sleeper, 
Weary of earth's mocking things. 



WHERE THE PURPLE SHADOWS SLEEP. 89 

Weary of the dim old forests, 

With their shadows dark and deep, 

Weary of the winds that murmur 
Like a restless child asleep, 

When the night with mournful stillness 
Vigils o'er the earth doth keep. 

Like the birds with broken pinions 

Fluttering in the purple shade, 
O'er my mother, in the forest, 

Where her faded bloom is laid 
So I'm sitting, angel-mother, 

Watching mournful daylight fade. 

Wond'ring, mother, why you left me 
When my heart was aching so, 

Broken, bleeding, fainting, quivering, 
With its bitter weight of woe 

With its mem'ries wild and haunting, 
Of a vanished "long ago." 



To a Jealous "Friend," 



Thou art jealous! 'Tis no wonder, 
Changing, fickle as thou art, 

That thou hast no faith in others 
Judging all by thy own heart 

Drifting winds upon the mountain, 

Fickle foam upon the sea, 
Bursting bubbles on the fountain 

One might sooner trust than thee. 

Talk of " Love /" Let valleys whisper 

Of the far off eagle's nest ; 
Let the storm that rages wildly 

Tell us of its calm and rest. 

Let the darkness talk of sunlight, 
Let the vulture wed the dove, 

But of all things most unlikely 

Is the thought that thou couldst love. 



TO A JEALOUS "FRIEND." 91 

Thou ? weak changing, fickle trifler. 

Bah ! The puny phantom-light 
Of thy " loving" flits before me 

Like a mist upon the night. 

Passion-words thou, too, canst utter, 
Bright and strange as tropic birds ; 

Well, perchance thy " heart doth flutter 
With the burden of its" words! 

They are all thou hast to offer. 

How I pity thee, and scorn 
Such a " love" as thou couldst proffer, 

Of a silly fancy born. 

Force thy way, oh, petty trifler, 

Into every generous heart, 
Thou wilt win a moment's smiling 
' Till each sees thee as thou art. 

Thou may'st win a moment's trifling 
From the heartless and the gay 

Thou may'st make thy useless living 
Vanish like a Summer day. 

But when roses blossom, trifler, 

O'er the paleness of thy face, 
Who will wander calm and prayerful 

To thy quiet resting place, 



92 TO A JEALOUS "FRIEND." 

There to whisper " Best Beloved" 
None may speak thy cherished name 

With a word of bitter memory, 

With a thought of truthful blame ? 

Thou may'st hear some words of loving 
As thou givest vow for vow, 

But the maid will love a fancy 
Truer, tenderer than thou. 

No deep soul, with honest yearning, 
No far-seeing, faithful heart, 

E'er will keep its lights all burning 
For thee, fickle as thou art 

If one loves, 'twill be a fancy 

Tricked and painted out for thee 
In thy true guise, petty trifler, 
Worshipped, thou canst never be ! 



Dudley Graham, 

" Dudley Graham ! "What a pretty name I" The 
speaker was a young girl about fifteen years of age. 
Very pretty she looked, with the glittering fingers 
of the sunshine resting on her curls ; and the Spring 
breezes kissing the crimson of her dimpled cheeks. 

" Tell me all about him, Robert," she continued, 
addressing a youth, who stood near. 

" You know I'm not good at word portraits but 
I'll bring him up this evening," returned the youth, 
moving off 

" Will you, Robert ? Oh ! you dear, good boy 1" 
and she entered a little gate that led to the pretty 
brown cottage where she lived. Robert Harwood 
was nineteen years old, and surely goodness and 
intellect were never more united in one person than 
in him. Jennie Mayburn tripped lightly to the 
house with her young heart full of Dudley Graham ; 
but Robert Harwood moved slowly down the main 
street of the little village and thought of Jennie* 
blue-eyed Jennie Mayburn. 

" I'm lame," he murmured. " She can never love 
me, but Dudley Graham, with his handsome form 



94 DUDLEY GRAHAM. 

and bounding step, can win what all my life I've 
longed for. He will not prize the rich treasure, but 
I) oh," and the boy ended the sentence with a mute 
prayer for strength. As only such natures can love s 
Robert loved Jeanette Mayburn, and she saw it not, 
prized it not. Ah ! many a sweet cup of happiness 
is held to our lips, and we cast it aside as unworthy 
while other draughts we quaff so eagerly, finding 
too late the bitter and gall at the bottom. And now 
I'll tell you of Dudley Graham. His form was tall 
and graceful ; his eyes were dark, " splendor haunt 
ing," eyes that were shadowed by short, jetty clus 
ters of curls. He had a merry, offhand way that 
was very fascinating; and yet, there was no nobility 
of heart or mind in his composition brilliant, fasci 
nating, unprincipled, are the three words that de 
scribe him. 

Robert Harwood saw with pain the growing 
intimacy between Jeanette Mayburn and Dudley 
Graham; but whenever he attempted to check it, 
she'd say " Pshaw ! Robert, you're jealous !" and 
then a proud, painful flush would sweep over the 
brow of the boy, and his heart would give great 
cries of anguish, though his lips told no tale of 
what was passing within. But there were times 
when the voiceless starlight heard the yearning 
tenderness of his tones, as they spoke the words in 
midnight dreams, " Jennie, darling Jennie /" 

" Robert, you've always called me ' little sister,' 
haven't you ?" 



DUDLEY GRAHAM. 95 

The young face was radiant with the light of a 
great happiness. 

"Yes, little sister," repeated Robert Harwood, 
smoothing her curls. 

"Well, if I'm your sister, I ought to tell you 
everything, oughtn't I?" Jennie Mayburn asked, 
nestling closer to him. 

" Yes, everything" answered the boy, still twist 
ing her curls and thinking how very happy it would 
make him if she'd only tell him one thing that she 
loved him. 

" Well, hide your eyes, Robert, till I tell you" 
the pretty pink fingers were pressed tight over his 
eyes, and Jennie's crimson lips rested against his 
ear, and whispered "I'm engaged, Robert, to 
Dudley Graham!" The paleness of death over 
spread the face of Robert Harwood, and, tearing 
her hands fiercely from his eyes, he gazed with a 
wild stare of mute anguish into her blushing face. 
"Don't Robert What ails you? What makes 
you look at me so ?" and alarm took the place of 
embarrassment on the face of Jeanette Mayburn. 

A hollow laugh broke from the white lips of 
Robert Harwood, as he said : 

" Look at you so ? Look how ?" 

" Oh, Robert, you frighten me ! I'm your little 
sister, ain't I ?" 

The girl nestled closer to him, as if a faint per 
ception of the truth dawned on her mind, and she 
would fain comfort him. 



96 DUDLEY GRAHAM. 

"Yes, my little sister," Robert answered, in a 
cold, mechanical tone, but over his soul surged wild 
waves of tenderness more passionate, perhaps, be 
cause they must roll on through all eternity, meeting 
no return, " Good-bye, Jennie," he said, rising to 
leave her. 

" Good-bye, Robert," said Jeanette Mayburn, un 
conscious of the great jewel that she was passing 
by, unheeded, for a worthless, tinsel thing, the love 
of Dudley Graham. 

" Not my will, Father, but thine be done" was the 
lame boy's prayer, as he leaned heavily on his 
cane. 

My heart aches for thee, Robert Harwood; and 
yet, who shall say, that in that hour pure wings of 
unseen angels did not hover over thee, helping thee 
to bear thy great grief ? 



" Oh ! Robert, Robert, how can I bear it ?" 

The tone was full of passionate wretchedness. 
Robert Harwood looked down pityingly into the face 
of Jeanette Mayburn. 

"Oh, Dudley, Dudley! how could I think you 
would ever be false to me ?" moaned the girl, gazing 
down at the paper that contained a notice of his 
marriage. 

" Jennie, my poor darling !" were the words that 
came with such mournful tenderness from the lips 
of Robert Harwood. Too well he knew the pain of 



DUDLEY GRAHAM. 97 

loving unloved, and he soothed her tenderly, as a 
mother soothes a grieved child. 

The sunset tinged with crimson, dyed the faces of 
the two that sat all unconscious of its glory each 
suffering the same pang loving and being unloved. 
And yet Jennie Mayburn thou wert loved by one 
of the most noble natures that ever existed, and 
thou didst not prize that which would have made 
thy life a joy and a perfection. 

" Jennie, Jennie, you won't break your heart for 
Dudley Graham, will you?" Robert Harwood 
leaned anxiously forward for her answer. 

" Break my heart for him ? I guess I won't I" 
said the girl, springing to her feet; and a flash of 
proud determination came out from her eyes and 
crimsoned her cheeks, while her lips curved scorn 
fully ; yet they trembled, and tears glittered in her 
proud eyes. She had a woman's heart, and it ached 
with the burial of her great love. A moment she 
stood with the fight of the Autumn skies bathing" her 
in purple glory then she covered her face with her 
hands and sobbed out all her pride in tears. 

" Jennie, Jennie, little darling, my heart aches 
for you." 

The tones were full of compassion ; and Jean- 
nette Mayburn must have felt it, for she said, with 
a voice full of sorrowful gratitude, 

" My brother Robert" 

Her companion winced and shrank farther from 
her. It was always brother, he thought, as if to 



98 DUDLEY GRAHAM. 

remind him he could be nothing more. There was 
a silence of some moments, and then Robert Har- 
wood said, in a low tone that seemed as if every 
word was some portion of his heart being breathed 
out: 

" Jennie, if I were not lame, could you love me. 
Would you be my wife ?" 

Jeanette Mayburn started back and looked with 
mute surprise on the pale face beside her. Then 
she realized how noble a nature poured out its love 
for her. 

*' Oh, Robert," she murmured, " I'm not worthy 
of you !" 

" Jennie, I know you cannot love me as you have 
loved Dudley Graham ; but he has proved himself 
unworthy of you. You cannot link your life with 
his \, and if you'll be my wife, I'll try to make you 
happy." 

The beautiful eyes of Robert Harwood were full 
of hopeful tenderness as he bent over for an answer. 
It was some moments ere Jennie replied, and then 
she said : 

"I love you only as a brother; but you are good, 
and true, and noble. I will try to make you happy 
I will be your wife, Robert Harwood." 

From quivering lips went up, through the Autumn 
twilight, the words, "My Father, I thank thee." 
Jeanette Mayburn heard them. Then she murmur 
ed, in true humility, 

" Robert, Robert, I'm not worthy of you. Pray 
God to make me so." 



DUDLEY GRAHAM. 99 

" My darling ! my darling !" was the only answer 
that a heart full to overflowing could give. 

The starlight filled the path where the purple 
sunset had trod, ere they parted one to dream of 
love, and joy and Jennie Mayburn the other to 
moan, passionately, " Dudley, Dudley, would I had 
died ere this." 

Ah! Jeanette Mayburn, could thy heart have 
grasped what it yearned for, then, indeed, might 
despair have crowned thy soul with darkness. God 
was good to thee, Jennie, but thou didst know it 
not and I'm sorry for thee because thou did'st 
not" 

It was a Spring morning when the trees were full 
of song-birds, and the violets full of sunbeams. 
Jennie Mayburn was Jennie Harwood now, and the 
wings of five years bad swept over her since we 
last saw her. 

" Wonder if Robert won't be home to-day ?" she 
said, as she picked up the morning paper. A mo 
ment her eyes wandered to the spring flowerets, and 
before her mental vision rose a face that in years 
gone by was shrined in the most sacred chamber of 
her heart a face that even now caused a half re 
gretful sigh the face of Dudley Graham. 

" I know Robert is the best man in the world. If 
I could only love him as I loved Dudley Graham, 
how happy it would make me," sighed Jennie. 

"Ah, a trifle when lott will oft take a charm divine, 
"Bui possession dims the diamond's shine." 



100 DUDLEY GEAHAM. 

So it was with you, Jennie Harwood, but you 
knew it not. How soon the awakening came ! On 
the first page of the morning journal was an account 
of a wife-murderer and the name was Dudley Gra 
ham. 

" Oh, my Father ! I thank thee ! Oh, have mer 
cy upon me !" moaned Jeanette Harwood. In that 
hour rose, reproachfully, before her the life-long 
devotion of Robert, her husband, and she realized 
that her affection for Dudley Graham had been a 
passion a mad infatuation and that she felt true 
love for none other than Robert Harwood. 

Jennie did not take up the paper again until late 
in the evening. Then the first words she read 
struck a chill of terror to her heart, "Explosion of 
the steamer Snow Bird." Robert had written that 
he would come home in that boat. With a mighty 
effort she read on. In the list of the dead was the 
name "Robert Harwood" A long, loud shriek 
pierced the twilight air, and Jeanette Harwood fell 
senseless to the floor. A severe illness followed. 
But God was merciful. Slowly she came back to 
life, and hope and happiness to find it a cruel mis 
take. Robert Harwood was living to be happy in 
her love. 



To Albert, 



When the Winter winds are sobbing 

Through the forests dim and brown, 
And the earth puts off the glory 

Of gay Autumn's radiant crown, 
Then, oh, Albert ! I'll be sleeping 

Where the mystic shadows tread, 
Gently, as if not to waken 

Quiet slumbers of the dead. 

Softly folded from the sorrow 

That my dreary earth-life knew, 
I will wait until the angels 

Tell thee, Albert, Twos true ; 
'Till they roll aside the gateway, 

Built between my heart and thine ; 
'Till they lead us both beloved, 

Where eternal waters shine. 

'Till they tell thee how I loved thee, 
Even though thy cruel words, 



102 TO ALBERT. 

Fluttered ever through my memory, 
Like some broken pinioned birds ! 

In the solemn night-time, Albert, 
Through the cold, estranging years, 

Will there come a vision, dearest, 
Floating upward on thy tears 

Of a young face bright and glowing, 

With love's rosy, radiant light, 
Such as slept upon my features 

Ere my life had known its night ! 
Wilt thou wander, oh, beloved, 

With a pitying, tender moan, 
To the grave where I am sleeping, 

With the grasses overgrown ? 

Do not dread to come, oh, Albert, 

To my lonely resting place 
For the clover buds will cover 

From thy sight my anguished face ; 
Thou wilt see no " white hands lifted 

Out and upward from the gloom," 
Thou wilt hear no wild upbraiding, 

Stealing from my lonely tomb. 

No, I'll lie with pale lids drooping 
O'er the eyes that once were bright, 

As they shone upon thee, Albert, 
With a tender heart's soft light 



TO ALBERT. 103 

And the hands that used to tremble 
'Neath the pressure of thy own, 

Will be folded very softly, 

O'er a broken heart's hushed moan. 



"To One who Sang of Love," 

PARODY. 

Thou hast sung of love's confession, 

Sung with speaking, soul-lit eyes, 
While I, darling, dreamed of rapture, 

To be found in apple pies ! 
Dreamed I of them brown and juicy, 

Sweet and pleasant to the taste, 
And I wondered, dark-eyed poet, 

If you'd call those pies " a waste !" 

If you'd think sugar expensive, 

Grumbling loudly at its use, 
When around our necks, oh darling, 

Was the matrimonial noose. 
Thought of eggs and butter, dearest, 

Needed for my favorite cake ; 
And, forgive me, but I wondered 

If you knew how much 'twould take ! 

And, when knowing, if you'd grumble 
That I loved to eat so well ! 



"TO ONE WHO SANG OP LOVE." 105 

Ah, my tears were falling, dearest, 
Dreaming of a " broken spell." 

Answer then, oh spirit-mate, 
Keep me not in this suspense, 

If we marry, tell me, darling, 
Will you grumble at " expense /" 



"Cannot a Man Smile, and Smile, and be a 
Villain," 



To be sure he can ! Can't he smile enchantingly, 
and talk sensibly, and look altogether killingly, 
irresistible, for the laudable purpose of making un 
fortunate females wake themselves up way in the 
night screaming out his name to surrounding 
snorersf Can't he wear enchanting dickeys, and 
bewitching boots, and flourish graceful canes, and 
heavenly moustaches, and do all manner of enter 
taining things charmingly, that poor feminines may 
labor under the absurd hallucination that they're 
in love with him ; and he may find it out and grow 
eloquent over his own attractions ? Yes, sir, and 
that isn't half that he can do. Can't he make love 
to you, (I'm addressing the crinoline population 
now,) and roll up his eyes, and beat his breast, and 
gaze at the moon, and wring his hands, and get 
down on his knees and spout Byron, and finally 
prove to be either " engaged" to some little milk- 
faced thing that you despise, or else the interesting 



"CANNOT A MAN SMILE," ETC. 107 

husband of some half dozen deluded females who 
each imagines that she, alone, is entitled to the 
enormous article under his left vest pocket ? Can't 
he travel under all manner of romantic assumed 
names, and write poetry, and sing " Meet me by 
Moonlight," and clasp your hand tenderly, and gaze 
in your eyes bewilderingly ; and vow eternal con 
stancy, and get you to burn his letters while he 
keeps yours; and finally, be " astonished how easily 
women are gulled?" I " pause for a reply." 



Ill Memory of Effie N, Wintersmith, 

AGED FOUR YEARS. 



April blooms are drooping. 

Fragrance o'er the earth, 
Birds are singing gaily 

Songs of love and mirth ; 
Flowers in the valley 

Scent the April air, 
Skies are blue and sunny, 

Earth seems very fair. 

But the flowers are mocking, 

Pale the early bloom, 
Naught can shed a brightness 

Over EFFIE'S tomb ; 
Yet the blooms are fragrant 

In the " mystic lands," 
Where sweet EFFIE wanders 

Led by angel hands. 

Strew the flowers gently 
O'er the fair young head 



IN MEMORY OF EFFIE N. WINTER8MITH. 109 

" She is only sleeping" 

" EFFIE" is not dead. 
Weep not for your darling, 

All earth's gloom is o'er, 
And she waits to meet you 

On " the other shore." 

Yes, amid the lilies 

Of the upper world, 
With her robes of gladness, 

And her wings unfurled, 
Little EFFIE wanders 

Through that land of light, 
In " Our Father's" mansion, 

Beautiful and bright. 



Written in a Bride's Journal, 



Your journal ! Of course you will bid farewell 
to it, and all other romantic or sentimental ideas 
now. How often you've bent over it with the tear 
drops coming up from your heart and raining down 
your cheeks ! How often you've bent over it, and 
traced joyous words as you listened to happy heart 
beats ! And now, as you read it over, you seem 
almost to retrace the paths you have trod since you 
began your "journal." It is perfectly useless to 
you now, and its few blank pages will remain un 
written for there'll be no more romantic dreams 
or declarations of love, torturing doubts, agonizing 
suspense, or joyous love-dreams to record! For if 
you have any heart-stirring love-dreams of course 
you, a married woman, would not be guilty of 
writing them down like a silly, moon-struck girl. 
There are blissful anticipations of future happiness 
filling your soul, and your eyes long, with a joyous 
eagerness, to read the record of your future life ; 
and you're dreaming fondly of a strong arm thrown 
around you to shield you from rude storms round 



WRITTEN IN A BRIDE'S JOURNAL. Ill 

earth's pathway. A faithful bosom to lean your 
head against as you listen to the musical throbbing 
of loving heart-beats. An intellect that can guide, 
direct, and improve your own ; to bear you com 
pany through the pearl gates, etc., etc. I sincerely 
hope, my friend, you may realize those happy scenes 
hope pictures now so vividly. 

Now, after all that sentimental stuff is done with, 
let me give you a little piece of wholesome advice. 
Bundle all your romance up, and scatter it to the 
" four winds of the earth !" Give up writing poetry 
and sketching landscapes, and direct your intellect 
in another channel. Consult all the female philoso 
phers of modern and ancient times, and learn the 
best method of making " light biscuit" and " good 
coffee," cleaning window-panes and sweeping car 
pets, scolding servants and mending china. Finally, 
get the latest edition of " Caudle Lectures," and 
study them attentively, that you may be prepared 
to manufacture similar ones, for the edification of 
that happy gentleman whose name you bear. 

Feeling overcome by my labors, I subscribe my 
self, your friend, MOLLY MYRTLE. 



To my Father, 



Oh, October's glories, father, 

Deck the sunny hill and plain ; 
But my heart is aching, father, 

With a wild and crushing pain ; 
For thy cheek is growing paler 

Each day than the one before, 
And thy voice is hollow, father, 

As the wind across the moor. 

Art thou dying, oh, my father ? 

Couldst thou leave us here alone ? 
Is it my heart's anguished beating 

That comes to me like a moan ? 
Oh, the distant vales are dreaming 

Calmly in the evening light, 
And white clouds drift gently over, 

Noiseless as an angel's flight ! 

And my mother's eyes seem brightening 
The blue heavens overhead, 



TO MY FATHER. 113 

Full of gentle, trusting beauty, 
Like a young bride newly wed, 

Oh, she beckons thee, my father, 
To that better, upper world ! 

Ah ! I thought them drifting cloudlets 
They are mother's wings unfurled ! 

It is bright and glorious, father, 

In that joyous, heaven land, 
And she's waiting for thee, father, 

Waiting with an angel band ! 
But, my father, canst thou leave us 

In the cruel world alone ? 
Seest thou my hot tears, father 

Hearest thou my pleading moan ? 

Ah ! thy tear-drops glisten, father, 

For thy weeping children's sake ! 
God, " Our Father," spare my father ! 

A world beside, in mercy take ! 
Oh, I'll ask it in His name ! 

Then He'll hear my anguished prayer. 
He will spare thee, darling father, 

Till together we go there. 



Shall Women Vote? 



My answer to that question is " No !" Women 
have home duties sufficient to engross their atten 
tion without having to study politics and argue on 
the merits or demerits of some licentious politician, 
before they can venture to vote, or will they follow 
blindly husband, brother, father, or guardian, and 
meekly vote as directed ? Then what an interest 
ing position a woman would occupy if she had 
three brothers, each voting differently, and each 
deafening her with arguments all conclusive that 
each is right. What rest would home afford to a 
man, when wearied with the world, he goes there, 
longing for the soft touch of cool fingers the warm 
pressure of crimson lips, and soothing tones void 
of argument, and meets noisy feminine politicians 
who talk all at once, each pouring a volley of ques 
tions and arguments on his devoted head? Poor 
man! he rushes out of the house wishing some 
wishes, that we are not commanded to wish in any 
of the ten commandments, for the deluded female 
that first raised a voice for voting. Frantically he 



SHALL WOMEN VOTE. 115 

rushes down street and meets his friend Tom Rix- 
ton, whose face is radiant with the consciousness 
of having bought over his wife and three cousins 
to vote as he does. How devoutly the former un 
fortunate masculine wishes he was able to buy over 
every female in the United States, so that women 
would dispense with voting. After cooling the 
stereotyped ''fevered brow" of which poets delight 
to sing, in the evening air, he goes back to the 
place he calls home, where he enjoys the epicurean 
feast of cold tea and burnt toast. Then how de 
lightfully his digestion is aided by the frowns and 
pouts of the interesting feminine part of the estab 
lishment 1 How vividly he recalls the time when 
he " voted for women to vote /" Then, for once in 
his life he acknowledges, mentally, of course, that 
he did wrong. How cheering it is to enter the 
house and find " baby" making the air vocal with 
harmonious squalls "Little Tom" punching the 
fire with " father's gold headed oane" and " Fred " 
sitting on " papa's new hat," cutting sticks with 
aforementioned unfortunate gentleman's razor, all 
because " mamma i off voting" 



On a Picture, 



Oh, royal light of the glorious eyes, 
With their radiance bright as Summer skies, 
And, oh, the brow with its pale, proud gleam, 
And the mouth that's wrapped in a pleasant dream, 
And the dark locks drooping heavy and low 
O'er tender lights that come and go, 
Brightening the face that smiles in my own 
The sweetest love my life has known. 

Oh, spirit-brother, my life's dear friend, 
What tender thoughts with memory blend. 
What sweet hopes rise like tropic-birds 
Too bright for the plumage of passionless words, 
Too deep and too solemn for lip to express, 
Too fond and tender for a cold caress, 
Too strong for the wing of a feeble sigh, 
Too sacred for aught but an angel?* eye. 



A Birthday Tribute to Mrs, Levian G. Webb, 



In the silence and the shadow of this sweet poetic 

hour, 
There are thoughts that haunt me strangely with a 

soft angelic power. 

There are thoughts that stir the fountains of my 

lone heart's deepest cell, 
As I sit and muse how fondly 'neath their sweet 

and witching spell. 

And I lean across my memories, breathing many 

a wailing moan, 
For the years whose mantling shadows have their 

darkness o'er me thrown. 

And I almost think the twilight is a portion of my 

pain, 
Yet I know I'm only weeping, that the Past comes 

not again. 



118 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

The Past, the Past, the far-off Past, before my mo 
ther died, 

When the billows of existence were a joyous swell 
ing tide. 

Before fair Hope went from me, ere I walked the 

world alone, 
Ere my life a crushing shadow or a single grief 

had known. 

Ere the joyous morn went from me, ere the chilling 

night-time came, 
Ere " my life seemed passing outw r ard like a pale, 

reluctant flame." 

Ah, when my soul was walking in the desert all 

alone, 
And the perfume and the beauty of my weary life 

had flown, 

There came a beam of gladness, reaching o'er my 

soul's dark sky, 
And the grateful tears were springing warm and 

loving to my eye. 

There came a burst of music like a young bird's 

rarest strain, 
And tender thoughts were thrilling softest magic 

through my brain. 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 119 

There came a breath of perfume stealing o'er my 

lone heart's plain, 
And drinking in its sweetness, I forgot my woe 

and pain. 

All, the sunshine and the music, and the breath of 

sweetest smell, 
Were only thy love, dearest, in my lone heart's 

deepest cell. 

And my face, to-day, is brighter, thinking, dearest 
fiiend, of thee. 

And the waves of love surge upward like the bil 
lows of the se. 

The love I cannot utter, the love I may not speak, 
The love that gushes upward raining tear-drops 
o'er my cheek. 

And I fold thy face up softly in my yearning, 

quivering heart, 
And I'll wait until the angels tell thee just how 

dear thou art. 

JUNB 23d, 1862. 



The Stepmother's Failure, 



CHAPTER I. 

ESTELLE NEWMAN'S STEPMOTHER. 

All the day long the sun had been sending his 
golden beams of light on the far-off hill-tops, the 
green valleys, where violets grew, and the shining 
rivulet, that wound through the forest, laughing in 
the sunshine and smiling in the starlight. 

Night was coming slowly over the plains, and 
lights were beginning to appear in the great house 
on the hill, where Dr. Newman lived. He had 
been a widower two years, and no doubt, wearying 
of the deserted halls and vacant rooms, he had 
concluded to bring a fair young bride to fill his 
heart and home with gladness, and be a mother to 
the child, Estelle, that his dead wife had left him. 
At least so said the villagers, who watched with 
intense interest every movement made at " Cedar 
Hill," as Dr. Newman's place was called. Their 
surmises in this case seemed to be correct, for when 
the full-orbed moon dropped her quivering light on 



THE STEPMOTHER 8 FAILURE. 121 

the cedars that gave the homestead its name, car 
riages and " gay chargers" brought merry troops of 
" fair women and brave men" to the white house on 
the hill. 

Lights were gleaming, jewels flashing ; and the 
" voluptuous swell of music" rolled down the long, 
sloping hill and tangled itself up merrily with the 
echoes that slept in the green woods. The little 

village of S' lay just beyond, bathed in the 

quiet moonlight, and seemingly contented with all 
surrounding circumstances ; but, ah ! there were 
hearts in that little village for whom the quiet Sep 
tember night had no charms hearts that tilled with 
envy and bitterness as they wondered why they 
were " not good enough to be invited to Cedar 
Hill." Many expressions of pity, too, were dropped 
for the motherless child of nine, who would " now 
have a stuck-up stepmother to rule over her." But 
Estelle, the child, the object of their compassion, 
where is she ? 

It is a lonely spot, and the tangled grass sways 
mournfully in the night wind over the grave of 
Estelle's mother. 

" Mother, mother, I wish I was down deep in the 
ground hugged up close in your arms, where they 
could never find me ! I wish I was dead ! I do !" 

The forest leaves rustled 'gainst each other pity 
ingly, and the starlight twined very compassionate 
arms about the child. 

She was rather tall of her age, but her form was 

9 



122 THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 

very slight and willowy. Looking at the goldenish 
brown hair that rippled down to her shoulders, the 
low, broad forehead, the mournful hazel eyes, and 
the full, pouting lips, that quivered with anguish, 
you wouldn't have called her a beautiful child ; but 
if you had seen her when pleasant excitement 
stained her cheek with crimson and deepened her 
eyes to browner, brighter hues, and wakened 
dimpling smiles around her mouth and over her 
face, I don't think you would have called her very 
ugly. At any rate, you could have loved her, if 
you love a candid, sincere, and confiding nature. I 
would not have you think Estelle Newman perfec 
tion, but I would have you deal leniently with her 
faults, which were a hasty, passionate disposition, 
and very bitter hatred when aroused. She had a 
strong nature, and never did or felt anything by 
halves. She either loved or hated. You could tell 
that by the low, passionate tone in which she mut 
tered, " I hate her, I do ! She's just like that old 
black cat that black mammy used to say was a 
witch, with her big, green eyes shinin' on me, and 
her hateful paws, that felt so soft, but scratched me 
whenever I took hold of them. Oh, I hate her! 
and she'll make father hate me/ and I wish she was 
dead ; and I'd kill her if I thought God wouldn't 
be mad at me." 

The little girl had thrown herself down on the 
grave of her mother as she spoke these words, with 
a sob at the close of each sentence. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 123 

Behind the marble tombstone, and peeping, half 
amused, half pityingly, at the little girl, was a young 
man, about two or three and twenty, though he 
looked much younger. A few moments longer he 
listened, but as he heard no other sound than the 
low sighing of the south winds through the forest, 
and the passionate sobbing of the child, he con 
cluded to attempt comforting her, and, perhaps, in 
so doing, he might divert his own mind from a sor 
row that was weighing very heavily. 

"What are you crying about, little girl?" he 
asked, laying his hand on the child's head. 

She started up, and stood a moment mute with 
surprise, while the teardrops glistened in the moon 
light as they clung to her long, dark eyelashes. 

" Won't you tell me what is the matter ?" he 
asked, in those low, sympathetic tones that touch 
the heart so, as he drew the child to him, and sat 
down with her on the tresses of the September 
grass. 

There was a half-stifled sob, and then the child 
said, 

"Mother is dead, and father is married again, 
and I hate her I do !" 

" Ilate who ?" queried Willard Button, as he 
bent his handsome head, until its jetty locks min 
gled with the brown ones of Estelle Newman. 

"The woman father married that's who!" re 
turned the child fiercely. 

" Have you seen her ?" asked the young man, as 



124 



THE STEFMOTIIEK S FAILURE. 



he wondered if any one could look on the glorious 
beauty of Harriet Richards, now Harriet Newman, 
and not love her. 

" Yes ; and I hate her worse than I did before," 
said the child, clasping her fingers tight together, 
in the intensity of her feelings. 

" What made you hate her before you saw her ?" 
asked the child's companion, bending his head and 
looking down into the little flushed face beside him. 

"Because because because she was a step 
mother !" said Estelle, flushing deeper at being 
pressed so closely for a reason. 

"A what?" asked Willard Button, wondering if 
he had heard aright. 

" A stepmother /" repeated Estelle. 

The young man half checked a smile as he asked, 

" What makes you hate her now ?" 

" Because I do !" returned the child, defiantly, 
and yet drooping her head lower with mortification 
that she could give no reason ; that she could not 
explain the intuitive shrinking from the insinuating, 
deceitful woman her father had married. 

Willard Dutton's fingers wound themselves half 
coaxingly through the little girl's brown hair, as he 
said, 

" After you know her better you will love her !" 

The child started from his arms as she fixed her 
clear eyes upon his face, and asked, 

" Do you love her ?" 

Willard Dutton shivered and turned pale as his 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 125 

heart moaned an affirmative. His white lips quiver 
ed but no word issued from them, for how could 
he tell that child of a love which he had borne ever 
since he could remember, for the woman Estelle 
Newman hated ? He could not tell it ! but oh, 
Memory told the story over to him ! Painted to 
him a little brown school-house, where he and Hat- 
tie learned their abc's ! He tried to turn away from 
Memory, but mercilessly she whispered to him child 
ish vows of constancy that he had murmured to 
Harriet Richards at play-time, or traced in rude, 
boyish letters on his slate in school-hours. If she 
got near foot in the class how proud he felt to 
" miss," until he sat beside her, and then he'd whis 
per fondly, " I missed on purpose, Hattie, to sit by 
you !" And she'd smile up in his face and clasp his 
hand as they folded their arms behind them to 
make them " sit up straight" the teacher said. 

Oh, from the vales of that far-back long ago, the 
old thrilling came back to him as he felt the clasp 
of "Hatttfa hand!" 

" I say, do you love her ?" persisted the child. 

Willard Dutton started, and had almost answered 
"Yes," when the memory of his last meeting with 
Harriet Richards came unto him, and pride would 
not let him say " Yes," when her words were ring 
ing in his ears, " I suppose I love you, Willard, as 
well as people ever love ; but then I couldn't be 
happy with a poor man! Dr. Newman, no doubt, 
loves me as well as you do. He is fine-looking, 



120 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

wealthy and aristocratic; and if he is fifty, thirty 
years older than myself, I think his wealth can 
make me happier than your lovef" The words 
were burned in the young man's heart and brain. 

" Hattie, Hattie, Hattie !" he moaned, dropping 
warm tears on the child's brow, as memory thus 
wrung his soul with anguish. 

" My name ain't Hattie it's Estelle !" returned 
the child, slipping her little hand in his. 

" Well, Estelle ?" said the young man, resting his 
wet cheek against her forehead. 

" Is your mother dead, too ?" asked the child, in 
hushed, pitying tones, almost forgetful of her own 
grief. 

" Yes," he returned. 

"And did your father marry again like mine?'' 
pursued the child, as if determined to know if he 
had as much cause for grief as she had. 

" Yes," was the almost inaudible answer of \Vil- 
lard Dutton. 

" Then I am sorry for you," said the child, wind 
ing her arms about his neck, and leaning her little 
cheek up against his. Her sympathy was very 
sweet to Willard Dutton, even though she gave it 
to him because of that for which he wept not. And 
Estelle, the child, never dreaming but that he wept 
because his mother was dead and his father had 
married again, pressed her cheek up closer, while 
the young man's tears quivered slowly down as he 
thought of Hattie blue-eyed Hattie that could 
never be his Hattie any more ! 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 127 

The night was half gone when Willard Button 
and Estelle Newman retraced their steps to the 
house. 

As they neared it, the child loosened her little 
hand from his, whispered " Good-night," and dart 
ing quickly from his side, was lost in the thick 
gloom of the cedars. 

Willard Button drew up to its proudest height 
his manly form, and a bitter smile wreathed his 
lips as he returned to the festive scene where " Hat- 
tie ! lost Hattie !" was all smiles and gaiety. 

"Dear Willard," she whispered, "where have 
you been ? I've looked for you everywhere." 

Willard Button fixed a look of scorn, that sprang 
from the depths of an unspeakable woe, upon the 
face that was never absent from him, and said bit 
terly, 

" I am too much honored by your condescension, 
Mrs. Newman !" 

" Not that name, Willard. Call me Hattie. You 
know you are my brother now !" 

The tone of her voice had been almost pleading 
when she began, but at the close she half affected 
playfulness. 

Willard Button turned away with a gesture of 
impatience, and Harriet Newman crushed back her 
tears crushed back her heart's yearnings for the 
love that henceforth must be naught to her. 



128 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

CHAPTER II. 

TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH. 

" Dear me, what a horrid bore that old wretch 
is ! Wonder how long he will live I" soliquised 
Mrs. Newman, as she watched the retreating figure 
of her husband. Heigho, money can't buy every 
thing ; yet, oh, if Willard had had it, how happy 
we could have been !" she continued, tapping her 
foot nervously on the velvet carpet, that gave back 
no sound to the movement. " What a strange child 
that Estelle is," she continued, " I cannot endure 
her presence. She has such a searching way of 
looking in your face, as if reading your very 
thoughts, and then Willard seems to take such a 
fancy to her. That may be a match ! Why not ? 
She could be happy with him ; and, man like, he 
would forget me, and learn to love her. Why should 
she be granted that happiness which was denied 
me? She shall not. I can prevent it, and I will ! 
Willard forget me? Willard cease to love me? 
Never!" 

And the angels of darkness were filled with glad 
ness, as they read the desperate purposes of Mrs. 
Newman's heart. A moment she sat apparently in 
deep meditation, and then she started up, saying, 

"I shall die of ennui here, alone! I wonder 
where Willard is!" 

Glancing a moment in the mirror, to be certain 
that she was looking as well as 'twas possible for 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 129 

her to look under the circumstances, she left the 
room, and went slowly down the broad staircase in 
search of Willard, who sat in the library with 
Estelle. 

" And you won't forget me when I'm gone, Es 
telle ?" Mrs. Newman heard Willard Dutton ask, as 
she paused a moment at the door. 

" Forget you ? Oh " 

The sentence ended with a burst of tears, but 
there was no need of any words, for who, looking 
at the slight, quivering form, and listening to the 
passionate sobs of the child, Estelle, could have 
mistaken her meaning ? 

Willard Dutton looked down on the child, and a 
soft mist of tenderness gathered in his eyes, then 
thinking of Harriet Richards' loving, trusting child 
hood, that ripened into so selfish" and calculating a 
womanhood, he dashed the tenderness from his 
eyes, and for the sake of the woman who listened at 
the door, he shut up his heart for a moment to the 
child that sobbed by his side. 'Twas only for a 
moment, then drawing from his pocket a small 
casket, and taking therefrom a tiny ring he placed 
it upon Estelle's largest finger, as he said, 

" Keep this, Estelle, until you quit loving me ; and 
when you do, send it back to me, and that shall be 
the only token !" 

The child looked down upon the ring with 
mournful fondness, then looking up quickly, she 
asked, 



130 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" And what must I give you, so that when you 
quit loving me you can send it back to me ?" 

The young man smiled, and said, 

"When I quit loving you I will send to you for 
this ring ; until I do, remember that I love you !" 

And Estelle, the child, treasured the words up in 
her heart, as precious gems, to brighten dark days 
of the years that were to come, while Harriet New 
man, the woman at the door, felt the words burn 
and fester in her proud soul as a prophecy of what 
the future would bring joy and happiness to Es 
telle, misery and wretchedness to herself. Yet she 
gave no sign of the storm that raged in her bosom ; 
slowly, almost calmly she entered the drawing-room, 
and soon her voice was heard caroling a merry 
song, as if life's roses were all thornless. The fare 
well in the library was prolonged some moments 
after Mrs. Newman left, then one, the brown-eyed 
child, went up to the solitude of her own little room, 
there to indulge her grief. The other sauntered 
leisurely toward the drawing-room, where he knew 
Mrs. Newman was alone. He did not tell her of 
his intention to leave "Cedar Hill," but merely 
spoke of going to the village, and wished to know 
if she had any commission for him. 

"No ! nothing," she tried to say, coldly, but her 
voice quivered and somehow almost before she knew 
it, the words had leaped over her lips, " Don't stay 
long, "Willard ! It's so lonely without you !" 

" Oh I Hattie, Hattie !" 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 131 

It was all he said, but the passionate, impulsive 
clasp, that wrung her hand, epitomized a volume of 
tenderness and suffering. He was gone, and Har 
riet Newman sat alone, realizing alas ! how bitter 
ly that the human heart has some depths that gold 
aye, even gold may not reach. 

It was late when Willard Button returned. Dr. 
Newman was just leaving on professional business, 
and with a kind of faint consciousness that Hattie 
would be alone, the young man walked with 
nervous quickness to the library. A great easy 
chair was wheeled up to the window, and there 
worn out with watching for his coming, Estelle had 
fallen asleep in the thick gathering twilight. At any 
other time Willard would have wakened her, now 
his heart was weighed down by a great and sudden 
joy, whose intensity was almost painful. So leaving 
the child, who had wearied waiting for him, he 
sought Mrs. Newman. 

" Hattie, Hattie, only a month longerj" he mur 
mured to himself, as he entered the spacious draw 
ing-room of Cedar Hill homestead. 

Mrs. Newman sat toying with the jeweled brace 
lets that clasped her snowy arms. As she looked 
up and caught the eye of Willard Dutton a glad 
flush wakened over her face as she held out her 
hand with a pretty pout, " I've been so lonely !" 

Then from the desolate deeps of his heart broke 
up a cry of anguish that he could not repress. 
Pride's trumpet voice could not drown it; reason 



132 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

and conscience had no time to be heard ere the 
words came, "Hatlie, Hattie, Hattie, if you had 
waited only a month longer !" 

Harriet Newman turned pale as he dashed a let 
ter into her lap, then covered his face \yith his 
hands and groaned aloud. Tremblingly she opened 
the letter, and read that a bachelor uncle had died 
and left Willard heir to an immense fortune. With 
one wild, appealing glance and a low shriek of 
anguish, Harriet Newman fell fainting into the arms 
that would fain have shielded her from every woe. 

A moment she rested in unconsciousness upon 
his breast ; then, with a shivering sigh, lifted up to 
his gaze her white face, written over with an anguish 
too deep for utterance. And as he looked a tempta 
tion knocked loudly at the door of his soul, but the 
angels smiled when he put it far from him that 
picture of a home afar off on some sunny isle, where 
the cold world's proud scorn could never come; a 
beautiful home afar off with Hattie, that would be 
his Hattie, spite of the perjured vows that now sep 
arated them. Oh, it was a beautiful vision, and his 
humanity longed for it ; but the God of his mother 
strengthened him in that hour of temptation, and 
with no low spoken words of tenderness or quiver 
ing kisses from Harriet Newman trembling on his 
lips he left her hurried from her as if some fiend 
were tempting his soul to perdition while he stayed 
by her side. And 'twas well for you, Willard Dut- 
ton, that you left that radiant vision of human love 
liness ere you were tempted beyond your strength ! 



THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 133 

Harriet Newman stood holding back the fleecy 
curtains and watching him with wistful, misty eyes 
as he sped away, away ; and a bright dream of sin 
ful enjoyment came unto her, too, and she did not 
resist it. No, she called the wild passion in her 
heart " love," and felt almost proud that because of 
its strength she could give up the world yes, the 
whole world's smiles for his sake. Ah, she had 
grown strangely sacrificing in a little month ! Once 
she could not even yield up the vain glory of wealth 
for his sake. Now she could yield up friends, repu 
tation, everything here and hereafter for his sake. 
Passion would do this ! Would love ? Never ! 

Ah, Harriet Newman, the angel that smiled on 
Willard Dutton as he hurried from you and tempta 
tion, turned sorrowfully away from your sin-darken 
ed soul as you stood that autumn evening and 
dreamed bitterly of ''what might have 



CHAPTER III. 
WILLARD DUTTON'S LETTERS. 

The Autumn sunbeams lay in a shining heap on 
the dainty monthly rose that was blooming in the 
window of Mrs. Newman's sitting-room. An ele 
gant little writing-desk was drawn up close to the 
bright, blazing fire, that seemed hardly necessary 
that balmy day ; but Mrs. Newman liked the cheery 
glitter of firelight perhaps because it reminded 



134 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

her of the old childhood days, when Willard Dut- 
ton called her " little wife." Strange how those 
memories would keep haunting her ! the old 
school-house ; the green, sunny slope of the hill in 
front of it; the clover blossoms that fringed the 
path homeward ; the narrow bridge of rocks that 
led out to a fallen tree stretching over the little 
brook that wound its silver fingers through the 
forest. And drooping their gay cheeks 'gainst the 
shining, satiny leaves, those crimson berries that 
Willard used to help her string for a necklace; the 
glorious old papaw gatherings. Yes, yes ; then the 
winter days, that brought red cheeks and red noses, 
and such big, cheerful fires. Quite different affairs, 
to be sure, the huge old log fires were from the 
dainty affair in that graceful stove, yet Harriet 
Newman could see sufficient resemblance between 
the two to feel misty tears struggling upward from 
her heart. 

What did make her think so much of Willard 
Dutton ? She was sure she couldn't tell ! Dutton, 
Dutton what a pretty name it was ! How would 
Hattie Dutton sound ? She repeated it over 'twas 
very musical! She wondered how it would look 
written, and just drew that little desk up close to 
the firelight, which laughed in her face, that she 
might see how it would look. "Harriet Dutton" 
" Hattie Dutton" " H. Dutton" she wrote it every 
way she could think of- in every imaginable form 
and style and somehow, before she was hardly 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILUKE. 135 

conscious of it, she had taken a fresh quire of paper 
and written "Dear Willard." Then she paused, 
leaning the face that of late had grown very stern 
and mournful in the little hands that Willard used 
to clasp, while through the throbbing portals of her 
brain swept many wild passion winds. At length 
pushing back from her forehead the heavy tresses, 
that in that hour seemed to her like the mocking 
fingers of a taunting fiend, she whispered, 

" I'll write to him as a friend. I wont shock him 
by any thing else ; then too, I shall not compromise 
my own dignity. This, however, will be sufficient 
to keep the old memory winds fresh and fragrant 
in his heart as they are in mine !" 

Oh, Harriet Newman Harriet Newman, where 
were the angel-wings that ought to have shielded 
you from this? 

The letter was written full of common-place, 
friendly speeches, that might have seemed half 
formal and indifferent to the uninitiated, but which 
were really calm from the very intensity of a passion 
deep and inexpressible ; and yet throughout the 
artful and seemingly circumspect epistle there was 
a something that could not fail to convey to an at 
tentive reader a wild pathos, touching and inde 
scribable. 'Twas done, and now a dainty envelope 
lay ready for its address. Harriet Newman bent 
closer over the little desk and wrote tenderly and 
carefully, 

" Mr. Willard Dutton, Louisville, Ky." 



136 TUB STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

How familiar the name looked ! There was a 
fascination about it that chained her eyes upon the 
soft, girlish chirography. Even though while she 
gazed, a stern agony held her delicate mouth as 
with an iron grasp, and shadowed the desolate face 
as with a mantle. 

A slight figure came through the half-opened door, 
and stood behind Hattie's chair, looking with yearn 
ing, wistful eyes, upon the name that was laid up in 
a sacred corner of her little heart. Hattie did not at 
first perceive the child, but as a slight movement 
threw Estelle's shadow over the paper, she started 
up with a frightened, defiant look upon the intruder. 

" Why do you come into my room without knock 
ing?" she asked, angrily seizing the child's arm. 

" The door was open, and I didn't see any need 
of knocking !" Estelle replied, with her eyes fixed 
upon the letter, whose superscription she was giving 
to her memory for future use. 

" Never dare to do it again !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Newman, releasing her arm and snatching up the 
letter, while a flush of annoyance came over her 
face at Estelle's question 

"Did you write for Mr. Button to come back 
again ?" 

It was humiliating to be forced into the cowardly 
expedient of lying, but 'twas impulsively uttered, 

" I have not written to Mr. Dutton !" 

Estelle Newman's lips were very quiet, but like a 
youthful Nemesis her eyes flashed out, 

" You have told a lief" 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 137 

Mrs. Newman felt it, and vexed and mortified, 
she sent the child from the room- with an angry 
injunction, whose tone was half threatening, to 
" attend to her own affairs." 

The little footfalls that used to be such music to 
the dead mother sleeping under the autumn grasses, 
grew fainter and fainter, then died out in the dis 
tance. Yet, though Harriet Newman was alone, 
that child's presence seemed to haunt her; the 
searching eyes seemed to gleam up from the roses 
in the carpet, and the quivering sunbeams, flashing 
over the tiny buds in the window, reminded her of 
the small quivering mouth that sometimes spoke 
such quaint, old-fashioned words. 

"She is a very observing child, and will be a 
constant spy upon my actions. She must be got 
rid of. She can read and write very well, and 
ought to be sent off to boarding school! Then 
when Willard comes here, she'll not be constantly 
in the way, gathering up in her supernatural mem 
ory every stray word and unguarded action. Yes, 
yes, the child will drive me mad if she stays here." 

Mrs. Newman stamped her foot impatiently, and 
hid the letter, beginning " Dear Willard," where 
curious eyes might not learn its sacred contents. 

" Yes, yes ; I can have a glorious excuse for go 
ing to the village to get new dresses for Estelle 
then I can drop the letter myself and run no risk 
of exposure." 

So she planned, and the sunshine went stealing 

10 



138 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

down to the lonely grave of the sleeping mother as 
if to tell her that it would come and embrace the 
clover blossoms over her face when Estelle's little 
hugging arms were far away. 

Dr. Newman came slowly up the avenue. He 
had just witnessed the death of one of his patients. 
Perhaps 'twas this which cast such solemn shadows 
over his face ; or it might have been that the sun 
beams, fresh from his dead wife's grave, were whis 
pering to him of a young life that gave herself, in 
youth's bloom and beauty, to one so much older 
than herself, and yet she never wearied of him 
never turned with only half-suppressed impatience 
from his caresses and never uplifted a discontented, 
unloving gaze unto his own. Could he say as 
much of the other ? He gave his horse a sharp cut 
as if the pain that swept over his life-chords at the 
question was making a fiend of him. He went up 
the wide stair-case, through the spacious hall, but 
instead of going into his wife's room as usual, he 
entered the library, and closed the door with a 
sharp clang. 

Harriet Newman had seen him coming up the 
avenue; had made a mouth at him behind the 
heavy folds of the window curtains ; and then had 
sat down, with hypocritical smiles and inward 
shrinking, to await his coming. 

But he didn't come. She heard the library door's 
quick clang, and breathed for a moment more 
freely; but remembering the purpose she had of 



THB STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 139 

Bending Estelle to boarding-school, she started up, 
painted a soft bloom on her cheeks, smoothed the 
wavy tresses of her shining hair, and with forced, 
unwilling smiles, half-brightening, half-deepening 
the dimples of her face, she sought the library. 

" You naughty man, to come home and never care 
to see your little wife, when she waited so impa 
tiently for you !" 

She commenced playfully, but the sharp agony 
in her heart crept even into those hypocritical 
words at the close. 

Dr. Newman looked up, and a glad tenderness 
an old man's tenderness, reader smoothed out the 
shadows over his face, as he drew her nearer to 
him, and looking down into the blue, liquid eyes, 
forgot the little grave that the sunbeams hugged. 

" Did you want to see me, darling ?" 

lie bent his head nearer to listen; with his great, 
warm heart yearning for the silver utterance once 
ag:iin, but it came not. 

Her face was hidden on his shoulder, he thought 
in womanly reserve ; and so he kissed the shining 
waves of her hair, stifled the longing in his heart, 
and dreamed not what a chord of old memories he 
had struck upon when he spoke the words, " Did 
you want to see me, darling?" They were the 
very words Willard had spoken unto her the morn 
ing before her marriage, when he came in answer 
to her summons. She had sent for him to say, that 
spite of the old childish vows ; spite of the times he 



140 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

had held her in his arms, and left his kisses on her 
face ; spite of all the past that must henceforth and 
forever be a bitterness and a reproach unto her, she 
was going to sett herself for gold! Yes, she had 
sent for him to tell him this; and bright, and 
eager, and hopeful, he stood before her with a mel 
low love-light stealing over his face, like a Summer 
sunset over a sweet home-picture. It was very 
hard to strike out all that gay radiance by her cold, 
cruel words, but Pride held her heart as with an 
iron grasp, and though she shivered when he asked, 
" Did you want to see me, darling . ? " yet, in a mo 
ment, she had told him all, and neither his white, 
despairing face, nor warm, ardent pleading, could 
loosen the grasp of Pride's icy fingers. 

Mrs. Newman was thinking of it all, and, oh ! 
loathing the tender arms of the old man, that en 
circled her. 

" Say did you want to see me, darling ?" 

He had waited for her answer, and from the far- 
off, yearning deeps, the question broke up a second 
time. 

" Yes ! oh yes !" she moaned, yet the wailing was 
not in answer to the old man, but to the haunting 
voice of Willard Dutton, that memory rung through 
the desolate valleys of her soul. The angels mer 
cifully spared that old man this knowledge, and so 
a glad smile drifted over his face, and a glad 
thanksgiving over his heart. It was well ! 

Thus we are cheated all through life ! Our dear- 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 141 

est hopes but bright illusions ; our darkest woes but 
bitter fancies ! So we shall continue to go on with 
blinded vision, until in the morning-light of Eterni 
ty, we see all things clearly. Hail, happy day ! 
How many tired hearts look off eagerly for thy 
coming ! 

A long time they sat the old man and the old 
man's bride and not until the sun had dropped 
down behind the distant hill-tops, did Harriet New 
man speak of her plan to send Estelle to boarding- 
school. She spoke in an enchantingly coaxing 
way ; expatiating on the advantages of it. 

Dr. Newman felt that little hand in his ; the blue 
eyes gleaming up in his face ; and those dimpling 
smiles, dropping like sunbeams into his heart, do 
you wonder that he was amiable and acquiescent ? 

" Girls needed a great deal when they went to 
boarding-school," Mrs. Newman said, more in the 
tone of one trying to keep up a conversation than 
really giving information. 

But though Harriet Newman tossed restlessly on 
her couch that night, thinking of the morrow when 
she would carry Willard's letter to the post-office, 
yet she did not go, for the next day was rainy and 
disagreeable, so, of course, going to the village 
must be postponed. In her impatience at delay, 
she sought to pass away a few of the weary mo 
ments, by telling Estelle of the change that was to 
be made in her monotonous life. In order to make 
the child anxious to go, Mrs. Newman told her 



142 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILUBE. 



wild, exciting stories of examinations and admiring 
crowds ; of " premiums," and finally of a triumph 
ant scene, when she would "graduate" and come 
home "so accomplished '/" 

Estelle's ambitious nature grasped this eagerly, 
and that night her mind was so full of it, that she, 
too, wrote upon an envelope, "Mr. Willai'd Dutton, 
Louisville, Ky." Fearing she might forget the ad 
dress, she had written it first ; and now she took 
some paper for the important missive. Not know 
ing exactly how to begin, she concluded her step 
mother must know the best method, so she, too, 
wrote " Dear Willard /" | 



CHAPTER IV. 

INDIANA FEMALE COLLEGE. 

" Girls, there's a new scholar ' arriv !' Suppose 
we slip down in the hall and see the name on her 
trunk !" 

"Agreed!" screamed half a dozen merry voices 
in a breath ; and a moment later the whole posse 
comi tatus were stealing softly through the spacious 
halls of the Indiana Female College, to inspect the 
stranger's trunk. 

" E. Newman, Livingston County, Ky." 

" A corn-cracker !" they whispered, gleefully. 

" Whar and thar !" exclaimed tall Miss Newton, 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 143 

with a grimace, while mischievous Emma Terence 
whispered, 

"Just laugh going through that hall if you 



Suppressing their mirth as best they could, the 
girls stole back to their rooms, as they imagined, 
very softly. Perhaps they would not have con 
gratulated themselves on having been so quiet had 
they seen the matron's room door open as they dis 
appeared, while that worthy personage, with pro 
truded cap and spectacles, listened intently for a 
repetition of the noise that she was not quite cer 
tain whether she heard or fancied. 

" Oh, girls, a second edition of last year's Maha- 
lia Boone !" shrieked Em Terence, as she closed 
the door of the "May-flower," as the room was 
called where those eight merry girls ate surrepti 
tiously obtained pickles and " goodies" ; and from 
their four respective beds told, alternately, love and 
ghost stories, after the nine o'clock period of turn 
ing off gas, and the matron's motherly " go to sleep, 
girls !" 

What a waste of breath that injunction was ! 
Said girls invariably testified their appreciation of 
it by a regular combat, in which pillows were the 
chief weapons. But they are talking of Mnhnlia 
Boone and " Mahalia Boone's second edition." 

" I didn't start to school until she left," exclaimed 
Nannette Peters, who was chief mover in plans for 
fun. 



144 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" You recollect her, Bell Dawson, don't you?" 
asked Em Terence. 

"I guess I do," replied the person addressed, 
" Can I ever forget her inimitable, ' I reckon I know 
whar I was raised,' whenever we girls hinted about 
some people's being as green as grass ?" 

There was a perfect tornado of little screams at 
this. 

" And girls," put in Fannie Romaine, " don't you 
recollect that letter we found in her desk where she 
had written home that a few of the Jloosiers had a 
little learnin', but not much common sense ; and 
she wanted her father to send a niygah to make 
up her bed in the morning." 

"Yes, yes, we recollect it," they screamed, 
" Mahalia Boone is a name never to be forgotten !" 

" She is not a fair specimen of the Kentuckians," 
said Mattie Reynolds, with some asperity; (her 
sister had married a Kentuckian) " I know brother 
Sam is rich, and smart too. He's got more money 
than would buy out all of us put together." 

" How much was Mahalia Boone's father worth, 
girls?" interrupted Nannette Peters. 

" Oh, a dollar or so, and a few cabins full of nig- 
gasT" 1 returned Em Terence, with a mirth-provok 
ing grimace. 

Just then the " first gong" sounded for supper, 
and the girls began smoothing collars and dresses 
and ringlets, while for a moment the busy hum of 
conversation ceased. Some one tapped gently on 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 145 

the door, and as a half-dozen voices said " come 
in," the matron entered, leading by the hand, trem 
bling, frightened Estelle Newman. 

" Young ladies, this is Miss Newman. There is 
in here, I think, a vacant lounge which she will 
occupy. Furnish her with combs and brush until 
her trunk is sent up." 

The matron was gone, and the trembling child 
stood looking round in mute, bewildered awe. How 
crestfallen and disappointed the girls were. They 
had expected a tall masculine, awkward creature ; 
in fact, a second edition of Mahalia Boone, from 
whom they drew their idea of " corn-crackers," but 
that timid, shrinking form, with its pale, ethereal 
face really 'twas too bad to have no " fun," after 
all ! A child, a pretty child ! Why could not she 
have been an awkward gawk, verdant and amus 
ing? For a moment they were silent and disap 
pointed ; then Estelle found it necessary to give 
rapid replies in order to answer all the questions 
showered upon her. 

" What kind of a house did she live in ?" " How 
many negroes had her father?" "Had she any 
grown brothers ?" " Was her mother dead ? and 
did she have a stepmother? or was her father a 
widower ?" 

What a relief when that brazen-faced gong 
sounded supper ! Estelle had been kept very close 
ly at home ; ergo, was unfamiliar with that horrid 
affair denominated a gong. 



146 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" There's the gong, girls !" screamed Em Terence. 
Indistinctly spoken, it did sound slightly like horn. 
Estelle had often seen them blow her father's old 
tin horn for the field hands to come to dinner ; but 
it sounded very different from this. Could it be 
possible that was a horn f She pondered the ques 
tion in her mind a moment, then being made bold 
by Hoosier-inquisitiveness, she pulled Em's dress, 
and asked timidly, 

" Was that a horn f" 

"A horn a horn! girls a horn/" screamed 
Em, in a perfect ecstacy of mirth ; while Estelle, 
hearing the suppressed shrieks of laughter, felt her 
cheeks burn with indignation. 

The supper-table looked long and imposing with 
its gleaming lights and "company preserves," as 
the girls denominated those peaches and quinces 
that never came out save on special occasions. 

Dr. Newman sat close to the president, Mr. Cool- 
ard. The matron had drawn down her face with a 
fresh layer of dignity, ludicrous in the extreme. 
Mrs. Coolard, poor cypher, looked more meek and 
cowed than ever, while Mr. Coolard appeared the 
same keen-eyed, sharp-nosed tyrant, with that 
" monareh-of-all-I-survey" expression, that he seem- 
ed to consider peculiarly becoming to his style. 

The girls marched into the dining-room with the 
solemnity of a funeral procession, all save Estelle, 
who sprang eagerly into the chair beside her father, 
and ventured to move her plate an inch or two 



TUB STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 147 

closer to her father. Mr. Coolard regarded this 
proceeding with an expression that plainly said, 
" You'll get over that, little girl !" 

Stale baker's bread and watery tea; ditto mo- 
lanes, with an interesting allowance of butter ; chip- 
beef, and slightly soured preserves, could hardly, in 
justice, be said to tempt an epicurean palate. 

One by one the girls leaned back in their chairs 
with that unconquerable expression of content that 
will creep over a school-girl's face, spite of all her 
trials. There were some faces too that struggled 
with a laugh, at the memory of " Was that a horn .*"' 

" And was that a horn ?" became a by-word at 
Indiana Female College! Did the girls hear the 
slightest unusual noise, instantly a half-dozen voices 
made the provoking inquiry. Any kind of an op 
portunity where the question could be asked they 
embraced eagerly, until unhappy Estelle felt herself 
to be the most unsophisticated little greew-"horn" 
that was ever tormented by mischievous school 
girls. In vain did she give up unmurmuringly her 
paper, envelopes, and postage stamps. In vain did 
she lend her pocket money, according to Scripture, 
" without expecting to receive as much again !" In 
vain did she distribute freely her box of " goodies," 
that came regularly every month ! Nothing could 
obliterate from their minds that thorn in Estelle's 
side, the question that was now stereotyped and 
alarmingly inexhaustible, " Was that a horn?" 

" Girls, I'm starved to death !" 



148 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

'Twas the second night after Estelle's arrival that 
Nannette Peters made this startling announcement. 

"Can we trust her?" whispered Bell Dawson. 

" If she tells, I'll throw her out of the window the 
next dark night it rains and I find her asleep, so 
she can't scream until she touches the ground ; and 
we can tell Mr. Coolard she jumped outl" said Mat- 
tie Reynolds, looking as threatening as her insignifi 
cant pug-nose and pale eyes would permit her. 

Estelle looked up inquiringly, yet with an unde 
fined fear. 

"Will you tell?" asked Em Terence, seizing her 
arm. 

"Tell what?" asked Estelle in alarm ! 

" Anything you see us do !" three or four voices 
answered at once. 

" No !" said Estelle, while her face grew a shade 
paler at the memory of Mattie Reynolds' threat 
about throwing her out of the window when she 
was asleep and couldn't help herself ! 

" Come on then !" 

Every girl was on her feet in a twinkling, and 
hiding a lantern under a large woolen shawl, Nau- 
nette Peters led the van. 

Shoeless and shivering, they went softly down 
one, two, three flights of steps, until they were in 
the basement. Carefully opening the kitchen door 
they went out, not stopping until they had reached 
the end of a long corridor, where, close beside a 
padlocked door, might be seen a low window, with 
one small pane of glass broken out. 



THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. 



149 



" Girls," began Nannette Peters, with mock sol 
emnity, setting the lantern on the window sill, " in 
this department you will find apples, potatoes, and 
a few turnips, all of which are calculated to satisfy 
the cravings of a hungry stomach." 

" Nonsense, Nannette, don't stop to fool !" said 
Em Terence, impatiently. " The question is how 
are we to get them ?" 

Nannette stood in dignified silence, with the 
faintest possible expression of pique that her ad 
dress should have been so little appreciated. 

" Here, she can get them !" said Mattie Reynolds, 
seizing Estelle, and forcing her half way through 
the narrow aperture before the child had a sus 
picion of her intention. 

A half-suppressed scream rose to Estelle's lips, 
but, between coaxings and threatenings, she was 
finally induced to be put in at the window, and 
hand out such things as she was directed to, from 
that store-room that Mr. Coolard, deluded man, 
imagined impenetrable when the door was locked, 
and the key hung up in the matron's room. 

Potatoes, apples and turnips ! No wonder Mrs. 
Baylond (the matron) found it necessary to adminis 
ter an emetic next day to the languid, headaching 
girls that came moping down to the breakfast table, 
and turned with undisguised loathing from the in 
nocently weak coffee that was the only accompani 
ment to the stale baker's bread and butter. Mrs. 
Baylond said " students ought not to eat meat" 



150 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 



How gladly would the girls have disclaimed any 
such pretensions, could that have secured them the 
meat that was seen in small quantities, once a day, 
on Indiana Female College dining table. 

"Those horrid turnips! I knew they'd make us 
sick," groaned Nannette Peters, that day in her 
room, as she, with some of her companions, was ex 
periencing from the emetic, a relief less elegant 
than unburdening. 

Estelle, alone, escaped headache, and an emetic. 
She, poor child, had been too much frightened to 
gormandize as the rest had done, consequently had 
the unthankful office of general waitress to perform. 

Out of school-hours it was, " Here, Estelle, look 
there in my trunk, and hand me that novel !" " Es 
telle, do put some more coal in that stove, I believe 
I've got a chill !" " Estelle, take that pitcher, and 
run down for some fresh water !" 

So faithfully did she perform the various tasks 
assigned her, that when she laid her tired little 
body down on her lounge that night, Em Terence 
whispered, 

" It's real nice to room with a little girl, ain't it ? 
They're so handy !" 

Estelle heard it, and pressed her cheek closer on 
her pillow with a little flush of pleasure that those 
"big girls" thought it "nice to room with her." 
And when she reflected on the many times they 
needed waiting upon, she couldn't help but wonder 
how they lived there so long, without any negroes, 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 151 

before she came; and as she closed her eyes in 
slumber, a dim, dreamy wish floated over her, that 
little black Florida was there to help her run down 
after water, and up stairs, after shawls, and in the 
study room after books, and to the school-room for 
slates ; and various other errands " too numerous to 
mention." 



CHAPTER V. 

ESTELLE'S COMPOSITIONS. 

Six times since the debut of Estelle at " Indiana 
Female College," the young ladies of said institu 
tion had worn white dresses and fanciful sashes to the 
annual night exhibitions, and bogus day-time exam 
inations, given for the edification of a large and 
delighted audience. Six times Mr. Coolard had 
made affecting speeches to his graduates; and 
received fees from grateful parents, as he compli 
mented them on the precocity of their daughters' 
intellects, whose brilliancy he was certain must have 
been inherited. Mr. Coolard was a thorough-going 
Yankee. I don't mean by that merely being born 
in a free State, but I mean that all his dealings, to 
a close observer, savored unmistakeably of " \vood- 
en nutmegs," and "oaken hams." He it was that 
looked stern and threatening, and terrible at the 
smallest and must dependent girls, but condescend 
ingly amiable as sessions drew to a close, and large 



152 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

girls with wealthy parents came near him. He it 
was that shed crocodile tears over graduating com 
positions, in which he had inserted affecting pas 
sages relating to himself. He it was that snubbed 
his wife, and bullied his butcher, and looked sanc 
timonious Sundays and thanksgivings. 

Estelle understands him perfectly; and though 
she has not forgotten the old, childish vow, she once 
made, to shoot him as soon as she got to be a wo 
man, yet she has long since abandoned the idea of 
resorting to this mode of redress for the nights she 
has been sent supperless to bed, and the Saturdays 
she has been locked in her room for some trifling 
" sin of omission or commission." 

It is evening now, and Estelle is sitting near an 
open window, with her arms about her confidante, 
Joanna Stapleford. It is only a month before exam 
ination, and they are talking of it. 

" Oh, your composition, Estelle ! Don't you 
dread it?" 

"Do you mean the reading or composing?" re 
turned Estelle. 

"Both!" said Joanna with a long, disconsolate 
face. 

" No, I used to dread reading them, but never 
composing them ; yet I never shall get up to read a 
composition without remembering the first one I 
ever read. How I came down from the platform 
flushed and happy and triumphant, and having 
made no impassable stopping places in its delivery, 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. f 153 

while Em Terence, who you remember ran off from 
school year before last, and married, whispered 
'was that a homF Oh, that foolish, childish ques 
tion ; it used to be the bane of my life !" concluded 
Estelle, in a half mournful tone, that was, neverthe 
less, mirth-provoking. 

" I remember some of the girls that used to room 
in here," said Joanna. " Let me see, what became 
of Mattie Reynolds?" 

" Don't you remember she was so anxious to mar 
ry some one from the extreme South, who had 
money ; and she imagined they all had it ; that she 
married a worthless drunkard ; and I think she is 
governess in her sister's family now, in Kentucky. 
She was at our last examination, and looked so for 
lorn I pitied her," answered Estelle. 

" Oh, Estelle," broke out Joanna suddenly, evi 
dently not sharing her companion's emotions of 
pity. 

" What a glorious time we'll have this vacation. 
We'll enjoy ourselves so much, for there won't be 
any noisy children like beg your pardon there 
was last vacation at Cedar Hill. Oh, dear ! your 
stepmother used to say we were cut out for old 
maids, because we didn't feel it a seventh heaven 
to hear those three little miniature copies of herself 
squall incessantly. I don't see, Estelle, how you 
can bear to stay at home those children would set 
me crazy ! Then, they're your stepmother's, any 
how!" 

11 



154 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" They're my father's, too," whispered Estelle, as 
a soft moisture came into her eyes, and told, more 
eloquently than words, how tenderly she felt toward 
the father that, with his young wife, and gay, noisy 
children, oft-times grew half-forgetful of the Estelle 
that his dying wife had given unto him, whispering 
with her latest breath, 

" Love her always, for my sake, Edmund." 

That same old gong that more than six years ago, 
had called the occupants of the "May-flower" to 
baker's bread and sour preserves, interrupted our 
heroines ; and, arm-in-arm, they joined the proces 
sion in the hall as they marched to the dining-room. 

" Estelle," whispered Joanna,. " won't you write 
my composition ? You can write so much better 
than I can !" 

" Yes," nodded Estelle. 

" Don't tell any one," pleaded Joanna. 

Estelle gave here a reproachful look that plainly 



" Do you think me capable of such a meanness?" 
Joanna understood the look, and answered, 
" I didn't think you would tell, darling ; but I felt 
so much anxiety about it, I couldn't help from ask 
ing you not to." 

They had reached the dining-room door now, 
and, of course, any farther conversation for the 
present was not to be thought of. 

" Young ladies," began Mr. Coolard, in his most 
imposing manner, " your compositions must all be 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 155 

handed in by the close of next week, for correc 
tion. 

The young ladies addressed certainly bore a 
stronger resemblance to vexed, frightened children 
than dignified young ladies, when this announce 
ment was made. 

" Compositions !" 

How the girls shivered at the word, looking into 
each other's faces despairingly ; vexatiously seeking 
encouragement from clouded brows and pouting 
lips. What a prophecy there was in the words of 
hours of racking thought with uplifted pen, that 
brought not a single original idea ! What a proph 
ecy of wading through numberless pages to extract 
an idea here and there and alter a few sentences 
that it might not all be copied ; and then, after all 
the labor, to have Mr. Coolard throw down the 
labored production with an annihilating frown, 
accompanying the accommodating information, 
" There isn't a grain of sense in a particle of this 
trash !" 

" Come, Estelle dear, write my composition now. 
Here is paper, and there's a pen. Commence I'll 
hold the ink for you !" 

They had reached the " May-flower" now, and 
Joanna Stapleford bent over Estelle eagerly. 

" Let's lock the door," said Joanna, " so that no 
one can come in before we have time to hide the 
composition !" 

The door was locked, and with an atlas on her 



156 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

knee, Estelle began writing Joanna Stapleford's 
composition, which latter young lady having no 
idea of what is called concentration of mind, inter 
rupted Estelle every third minute with questions 
like 

" "Which do you think most becoming to me, Es 
telle, curls or braids ?" " Wouldn't you hate to 
look as dish-watery as Alice Litepate ?" 

Estelle bore this for a while, but at length be 
coming annoyed, exclaimed suddenly, 

" I can't write, Joanna, if I keep answering ques 
tions." 

Just then there was a hurried knock at the door, 
and either from being suddenly startled or from 
impulsive pique, Joanna dropped the inkstand in 
Estelle's lap, thereby staining a large spot on a 
beautiful blue organdie that had been voted her 
most becoming dress. 

In her haste to hide the composition, Joanna left 
Estelle to open the door, and get the ink from her 
dress as best she could. 

'Twas Alice Litepate at the door. She is hardly 
worth a description, and yet I may as well give it. 
She was rather tall, with pale, blue watery eyes, and 
light yellowish hair. Her father was an industrious 
mechanic, of Oldham County, Ky., who had man 
aged, by industry and economy, to send Alice to 
boarding-school. 

This was considered a proceeding so wonderful 
that Miss Alice felt it incumbent upon her to snub 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 157 

the smaller girls, and insult all whose wealth and 
position did not entitle them to her toadying. 

" Dear Estelle," she began, " I just came in to 
get you to write me a composition on ' Hope.' Maw 
and Paw will be here at the exhibition, and if I 
don't have a good composition they will be so mor 
tified. They've spent so much money upon me," 
she continued, with an insipid smirk of complacency, 
" that I want to make as good a show as I can." 

Estelle felt so contemptuous a pity for the milk- 
and-water affair before her, that she smiled and 
said, 

" Well, I'll write it to-night." 

" Now, Estelle, dorft tell any one !" she whispered, 
as Joanna Stapleford, who had left the room as 
Alice came in, re-entered. Estelle's face was full 
of a contempt she could not repress as she gave the 
required promise. 

" How I do hate that Estelle Newman !" muttered 
Alice to herself as she reached the hall. "The 
hateful thing is so proud and stuck-up, and she 
thinks herself so smart she almost dies with con 
ceit" 

Ah, Alice Litepate ! envy was an abiding guest 
in your bosom. 

"Here, Estelle," said Joanna, "do finish this, 
darling. I won't speak another word to you ! I'm 
sorry I spilled that ink on your dress. That idiotic 
Alice Litepate startled-me so I didn't know what I 
was doin<r." 



158 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" 'Tis no matter about the dress," returned Estelle, 
beginning to write. Joanna sat very quiet, while 
Estelle's fingers flew unweariedly over the unstained 
foolscap. 'Twas finished, and Joanna Stapleford's 
eyes sparkled with pleasure as Estelle read it aloud ; 
and thinking of a triumph hour when applauding 
boquets would be showered at her feet, she put her 
arms about Estelle and whispered, " Oh, I love you 
so much !" and Estelle, the child woman, thought 
how sweet to write such compositions all the time, 
if they ever brought such words of tenderness. 
Her heart was yearning to pour out its gushing 
fullness, and laying her bright face in Joanna's 
lap, she lifted up her brown eyes and whispered, 
" Love me always, Annie !" 

The dark, proud face above quivered a moment, 
half remorsefully, for just then she had been think 
ing how she should talk to Estelle, and keep her 
from writing another composition so good, and then 
and then who would receive the highest praise 
from the listening crowd attending " Indiana Fe 
male College" exhibition? But loving, trusting 
Estelle knew it not, and so she lay there with those 
hypocritical arms about her, and the moonlight 
brightening the goldenish waves of her hair. Es 
telle, motherless Estelle, my heart aches for you, my 
poor child, when I think how full your young heart 
was of tenderness, and how you longed with un 
utterable longing for a friend a true, constant, 
affectionate friend / and that summer night you 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 159 

thought, deluded child, that you had a friend ; so 
the misty tears of gratitude came into your eyes as 
you listened to those whispered words of tender 
ness. 

Oh, Friendship, Friendship, thou art amongst the 
fairest of earth's mocking dreams ! 

Ding, dong ! " The bell for study hour, girls," 
grinned Alice Litepate, at the door. 

That study room ! What a study it was, to be 
sure, with its multiplicity of faces and forms ' 
bright girls and dull ones some sour, and sarcastic, 
and pale-faced some rosy and amiable some 
coquettish and vain some impulsive and warm 
hearted, and a few, oh ! how very few, studious and 
patient. 

There in that corner sat Julia Melbourne, with a 
novel inside of her atlas ; in the shadow of the 
window curtain sat Alice Litepate, penning an 
insipidly sentimental note to one of the college boys, 
who had made the little simpleton believe he con 
sidered her " beautiful" ; there by the table sat 
Virginia Finly, anon working problems for the girls, 
or explaining a lesson they did not understand, 
while they, not thanking her for the trouble, laughed 
so soon as her back was turned at what they termed 
her " conceit." 

Of all the passions, oh ! Envy, thou art least akin 
to Heaven J 

The study hour was over! that is, Julia Mel 
bourne had finished her novel ; Alice Litepate had 



160 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

written two pages of mawkish sentiment, and Vir 
ginia Finly had made her head ache teaching 
schoolmates, whose envy shut out all gratitude for 
her services. And Estelle, I am ashamed to tell it of 
her, instead of studying her unlearned lessons, fol 
lowed her " inspiration" and redeemed her promise 
by writing Alice Litepate's composition, which in 
teresting creature received the favor as a matter of 
course, deeming it but due her tallow-haired style 
of " beauty." 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE MISSING COMPOSITION. 

The long looked for day, the last day of exam 
ination, dawned clear and beautiful. The bell for 
rising was rung half an hour earlier than usual, and 
heads in curl paper looked with nervous eagerness 
over questions that might be asked that day. 

After many interruptions Estelle had written her 
own composition. Joanna Stapleford, with her great 
thirst for praise, felt that she could not bear for 
Estelle to read a composition that would bear off 
the palm. She had racked her brain for some time 
to prevent this, and that morning what she felt to 
be a " bright idea," entered her head. 

"She could manage it," she said, mentally, as she 
sprang out of bed that morning at the first tap of 
the bell. Had Estelle heard the words she would 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 161 

have understood what they meant two hours after 
ward, when she entered the room and found her 
composition covered with ink and an empty bottle 
lying close beside it. Poor Estelle ! a moment she 
looked, then realizing the catastrophe, burst into 
tears. 

" What is it, Estelle ? What is the matter ?" 

It was Joanna Stapleford who had entered the 
room. 

" Oh, Annie, my composition ! look at it ! and 
I've so much to do ! 1 shall not have time to copy 
it off before the exercises begin !" 

" Dear Estelle," said the artful girl, " I will copy 
it for you. Here, give it to me," and before Estelle 
could reply Joanna had left the room. 

What a relief it was ! With a murmured bless 
ing upon the head of her " unselfish friend" Estelle 
dismissed the unfortunate affair from her mind. 

"Julia Gollard," said Joanna Stapleford, " if you 
will copy off this composition for me and not tell 
any of the girls about it, I will give you a dollar so 
soon as you have finished it." 

" Well, give it here, quick, then !" answered the 
person addressed, an ignorant, grasping creature, 
who would do anything for money, and who had 
just brains enough to remove her slightly from an 
idiot. Joanna knew this, and that is why she had 
selected her to copy and bear the blame of the mu 
tilation of poor Estelle's composition. Whole para 
graphs were marked out, sentences altered, and 



162 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

words inserted, until such another piece of non 
sensical bombast could scarcely be found. Julia 
Gollard, however, copied it in her stiff, round hand, 
never dreaming that it was not just what it should 
be. 

Joanna Stapleford received it with grim triumph, 
paid her miserable menial the promised amount, 
and in imagination reveled in the deafening applause 
of admiring hundreds that would be assembled that 
night. She had no fear of being excelled now. 

The day was passed. In the deserted school 
room the blackboards were full of the problems that 
trembling fingers and throbbing brains had worked, 
and Mr. Coolard's desk was full of books, whose 
short questions and long answers had struck terror 
to the heart of many a trembling school girl, exam 
ination-days. How the walls of the old room seemed 
fairly radiant with a mute ecstacy at the thought of 
the long resting quiet that the vacation would 
bring 1 

" Oh, Annie, my composition ! did you copy it 
off? I've been so busy all day I haven't thought 
of it until just this moment." 

The clear, trusting eyes that were upturned to 
Joanna Stapleford might well have deepened the 
flush upon her cheek. The glowing dye of anticipa 
tion deepened and burned, and for a moment her 
guilty heart trembled. 'Twas only for one wavering 
moment, then she answered, calmly, 

" I began copying it off, but Mrs. Coolard sent 



THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. 



163 



for me, and so I paid Julia Gollard a dollar to 
finish it" 

" That simpleton ?" asked Estelle, in surprise. 

" Yes, she was the only one that was not too busy, 
and I thought she'd have the sense to copy when 
it was all as plain as the nose on her face." 

Joanna Stapleford tried to laugh, but 'twas a 
forced, uneasy laugh, betraying more disquiet than 
Estelle's involuntary sigh as she thought of her 
composition being in Julia Gollard's stiff, awkward 
handwriting. 

" Well, well, ' what can't be cured must be en 
dured,' " concluded she, as Joanna Stapleford, with 
combs and brush, said, 

" Estelle, dear, do braid my hair for me. You 
have so much better taste than that horrid, fussy 
hair-dresser that the other girls keep busy all the 
time." 

And Estelle, weaving in tender thoughts of her 
bosom friend, threaded the long, jetty masses 
through her fingers patiently, as if braiding hair 
was forever to be her constant employment. 

" It looks mean to do her so," soliloquized Joanna, 
" but it isn't, for what harm will it do her? Every 
one will know it's a mistake some way, for she has 
always borne off the palm for good compositions. 
I think she might give up to me once." 

The compositions lay in a snowy pile, gaily inter 
spersed with the glittering ribbons that held them 
together. The exhibition room was very quiet, for 



164 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

the girls were in their rooms busily engaged in 
beautifying themselves for the coming night of tri 
umph. 

" That hateful Estelle Newman ! How conceited 
she did look to-day, outstripping us all at the exam 
ination, and I suppose to-night, when she gets up 
to read her composition she will look upon the rest 
of us with more contempt than ever. But she shall 
not do it ! She has been reading compositions here 
for four or five years, and she might stay in the 
background to-night she shall /" 

It was Alice Litepate that soliloquized thus, as 
she entered the exhibition room, and approached 
the little stand where the compositions lay. Hastily 
turning them over until she saw the name " Estelle 
Newman," she seized that one eagerly, and hurry 
ing to one of the vacant rooms, put it into the stove, 
and threw a lighted match upon it. 'Twas well. 
Better for the miserable stuff to perish in the flames 
than for poor Estelle to be mortified by attempting 
to read what would have drawn down ridicule and 
contempt upon her. 

Tims it frequently is, those who seek to injure do 
us a kindness, when, perhaps, neither they nor we 
are conscious of it. 

'Tis needless to say, there was much searching 
for the missing composition, and great wonderment 
as to its whereabouts. 

Miss Hansford, the superintendent of the exhibi 
tion, made diligent inquiry concerning it ; and on 
learning that Estelle had given it to Joanna Staple- 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 165 

ford to copy, and had not seen it since, she regard 
ed Joanna with a suspicious look, that cut the proud 
girl to the quick. 

" Miss Hansford, I got Julia Gollard to copy it 
off, and I put it right here on this table. Julia saw 
me put it there. Didn't you, Julia ?" 

But that person, stupid as she was, understood 
there was some kind of a difficulty, and fearing lest 
she should become involved, denied any knowledge 
whatever of the missing composition. 

Joanna was in despair. In vain did she entreat 
Julia to be a witness to her placing the composition 
on the table, and immediately going to her room 
where she had been ever since. Julia was inexor 
able, and Miss Hansford said sternly, 

" Go to your room, Miss Stapleford ; and if you 
are conscious of wronging a bosom-friend, your 
conscience will be sufficient punishment" 

Poor Joanna ! She had not expected retribution 
so soon. Already the girls regarded her with ill- 
concealed contempt, and Alice Litepate whispered 
audibly, 

"Look out for your compositions, girls, if you 
don't want them stolen !" 

To Joanna's lips come a quotation she could not 
repress, 

u The insults of the powerful were bad enough, 
yet these I have managed to bear ; but to be spurn 
ed by so base a creature as thou, the disgrace of 
nature, is to die a double death !" 



166 . THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" Umph ! Shakspeare /" said Alice Litepate, while 
the girls' titter at her ignorance was hushed by Miss 
Hansford's commanding tone, 

" If you cannot prove your innocence, Miss Sta- 
pleford, bear suspicion meekly." 

Joanna left the room with haughty lip and digni 
fied carriage ; but the tears rained over her proud 
face a moment later, when Estelle, with generous, 
clasping arms, whispered, 

" I don't believe you did anything to my compo 
sition, Annie. I know you put it on the table just 
as well as if I had seen you put it there. The whole 
world could not make me believe anything against 
you, darling." 

" I did put it there, Estelle. Indeed I did," said 
Joanna, striving, by this assertion, to stifle the con 
science pangs for the greater wrong she would have 
done Estelle. 



The exhibition was over. The girls had acquited 
themselves creditably; and even Miss Hansford 
looked at Joanna Stapleford smilingly when she saw 
the boquets that were showered at her feet as she 
read, in her loud, clear voice, the composition Es 
telle had written for her. 

"Here, Estelle, these flowers, these cards, this 
ring fastened here. Everything they threw me to 
night is yours. You wrote the composition. Here, 
you may have them all." 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 167 

They were alone, and the proud face was pale 
with the bitterness of remorse. 

" No, Annie, if you hadn't read it, 'twould not 
have sounded half so well. I will take one little 
bunch of flowers and keep it forever for your sake. 
Don't you know Mr. Coolard says, 'Delivery is 
three-fourths.' If I had read it hardly any one 
could have heard me, and I shouldn't have been 
so applauded. So you see they are yours after all, 
Annie." 

Joanna was penitent and humble, and miserable 
that night, but, next morning she was the the same 
proud, ambitious, unscrupulous Joanna Stapleford, 
that, for some inscrutable Providence, her Maker 
had created. 

'Twas after breakfast, and the girls were packing 
trunks, making promises to write often and love 
forever, bidding farewell for a season to their favor 
ite haunts, and, ever and anon, leaning out in the 
June sunbeams, to watch for the stage that would 
not arrive for an hour yet. 

" Some gentlemen in the parlor for Miss New 
man," said the chambermaid, opening the door of 
the " May-flower," where Estelle and Joanna were 
busily engaged in laying plans of enjoyment for the ' 
coming vacation. 

" Some gentlemen ! Oh, Annie, who can they 
be?" breathlessly asked Estelle. 

" Probably your father and some other old fogy 1" 
smiled Joanna. 



168 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

Estelle breathed more freely, and made a move 
doorward feeling much relieved. 

Yes, it was her father, and and the parlor was 
dark, and she didn't recognize the other until her 
father said, 

" This is Mr. Dutton, my daughter." 

Estelle gave one blushing upward glance at the 
face that seemed "sacred to the memory of" her 
childhood. She looked up eagerly, but 'twas not 
that face her childhood had known and loved. 
No, 'twas a younger, fairer, tenderer face, mellowed 
by the unseen mother-kisses of her who had gone 
before. This was a cold, stern face, with a proud, 
sarcastic mouth, and searching, penetrating eyes 
that made Estelle half uncomfortable, spite of Wil- 
lard Dutton's smile and cordial hand-clasp. 

" He must be about twenty-seven or eight," solilo 
quized she, "a crusty old bachelor." Then she 
looked down at the ring upon her smallest finger, 
and smiled as she remembered the old contract 
about keeping it until she quit loving him. " I 
ought to give it back now," was her mental com 
ment, as she stole another glance into the eyes that 
were searching her face for some trace of the child, 
toward whose womanhood he had looked so regret 
fully. Estelle, however, did not interpret the look 
as anything more than a prolonged mental criticism, 
and accordingly permitted her lips to pout a trifle 
more than was necessary. Willard Dutton noted 
this, and turned away with the thought, " She, too> 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 169 

has grown willful and spoiled and sarcastic." Es- 
tellc read the contempt upon his face, but the feeling 
of pique changed to one of wonder as she saw the 
yearning raournfulness that for a moment mantled 
his proud face. Well might she wonder, only the 
angels heard the wailing cry of his soul in that hour, 
" Oh, woman, woman, thou fairest of earth's delu 
sions." 

" You are not going home with me then this va 
cation ?" half queried, half affirmed Dr. Newman. 

" I promised to go home with Joanna Stapleford," 
returned Estelle, as if half afraid of having to 
combat some objections. 

" She was the dark-haired young lady who read 
so splendid a composition last night, was she not?" 
queried Mr. Dutton. 

They must have thought it strange that Estelle 
should blush and drop her head so at hearing 
another praised ; nevertheless, she did, and her 
faintly spoken " Yes, sir," was scarcely audible. 

" Affectation," sneered Willard Dutton, mentally, 
as he noticed her emotion, never dreaming how her 
heart was thumping to receive such praises from his 
cold, silent self. 

" Bring the young lady in, and let us get ac 
quainted with her," said Dr. Newman. 

How glad Estelle was of this excuse to escape 
from Willard Dutton's searching eyes and haughty 
lip. 

Joanna Stapleford was delighted with the idea of 

12 



170 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

being presented to the wealthy, aristocratic Mr. 
Dutton, and, as she arranged her jetty braids, in 
imagination she already beheld him at her feet, 
entreating her to preside over his heart and 
pocket book. And cogitating upon this interesting 
and much to be desired period of her existence, 
she said, 

" Estelle, let us insist upon his going home with 
us ! You know ' Crab Orchard Springs' are not 
far from our house, and I think we can persuade 
him to go." 

They pleaded to so good a purpose, aided by 
Dr. Newman, that an hour later, when the stage 
drove up, Mr. Willard Dutton was one of the pas 
sengers bound for " Crab Orchard." 

Joanna Stapleford attributed this to her own 
supernatural attractions, which belief rendered her 
lively and amiable and chatty in the extreme. How 
different would she have felt could she have lifted 
the veil that hid Mr. Dutton's heart, and read 
there only ennui, and a restless desire to get away 
from himself. So while Joanna was congratulating 
herself upon an easy conquest, Willard Dutton's 
mental reverie might have been recorded something 
like, 

" I really believe the girl imagines I am entranced 
by her miraculous fascinations. Well, if she feels 
capable of winning me, let her try. 'Twill be a 
slight relief from life's dull monotony to be courted 
by a school girl. Ha, ha, ha !" Mr. Willard Dut 
ton laughed mentally. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 171 

A faint shadow of this transient mirth shone 
over his lips, and Joanna noted it as an apprecia 
tion of a witty remark that she had a moment 
before congratulated herself upon making. 

" Strange that you do not bring to bear the ar 
tillery of your youthful attractions, little one," half 
sneered Willard, glancing toward Estelle, who was 
watching an old man and his young wife, and won 
dering if the woman didn't sometimes forget and 
call him father. 

" He crowds himself in the corner to give her 
plenty of room," thought Estelle. " I wonder if it 
wouldn't be nice, after all, to marry an old man ? 
Pshaw! what am I thinking of? Marrying an old 
man? What fun could I have? Suppose, for 
instance, I should marry Mr. Button whew!" 
Estelle felt herself insulted at the bare supposition, 
and fanned herself violently to cool her indigna 
tion. 

Ah, Estelle ! The passion-flowers are blooming 
in your young life now. Your heart is not yet old 
enough to know the pure feeling, love. No, that 
fragrant, unfading blossom has not yet brightened 
the green valleys of your soul; and, with your 
blinded vision, you call those coquettish, changing, 
impulsive, ever blooming, ever withering passion 
flowers, love. So three-fourths of the world do. 
Many, oh, how many, hearts have cast their desti 
nies as the passion-flowers directed, and then, when 
disgust and weariness come, they say love blinded 



172 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

them. No, no, passion blinds, but love makes us 
see clearly discovers new and ever-gushing sources 
of happiness that blind passion would have tram 
pled heedlessly upon. Every heart, in the hey-day 
of youth's exciting hour has its passion dream ; but, 
alas, how very few wake to the sweet joy of a reali 
zation of love's dreamings ! 

" I wish I had a sweetheart," soliloquized Estelle, 
" Em Terence used to look so happy over her love 
letters, and she used to try her fortune so anxiously, 
and finally she married. What a great thing love 
must be ! Her lover was poor, and, I thought, 
horridly hateful, yet she ran off with him because 
she said she just couldn't live away from him!" 

" Ah, Estelle, another passion-flower ! Beware 
of them, child!" 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE STAPLEFORDS. 

Stapleford mansion was a tall, showy, pretentious 
affair. Good index of the character of its inhab 
itants showy ! That describes them exactly ! 

Mrs. Stapleford was one of your quiet, indolent, 
amiable women. She felt the importance of that 
lately put-up three-story brick house and seemed 
to consider it sufficient honor and glory to excuse 
her from ever making a sensible remark, or commit- 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 173 

ing a generous action. Her father had amassed a 
comfortable fortune, by unwearied penuriousness, 
and genteel swindling. This she considered some 
thing so remarkable, that " pappy" was her favorite 
theme of conversation. 

Mr. Stapleford was a pompous piece of absurdity, 
who appeared to be constantly admiring his own 
dignity. 

Joanna's younger sister, Eliza Ellen, seemed to 
consider it the .chief end and aim of her existence 
to impress visitors with the importance of the 
Stapleford family. Oswald Stapleford, the pride of 
Stapleford mansion, was tall and graceful; with 
" glorious haunting eyes," Estelle mentally affirmed, 
as she crimsoned beneath their admiring gaze. 
Willard Dutton saw the blush, the glance, the 
quivering smile ; noted all, and the sarcastic sneer 
deepened on his face, as he mused bitterly, on a 
time when a once worshipped face blushed and 
quivered 'neath his gaze. 

They all sat in the parlor, after tea, and Joanna, 
delighted that Oswald and Estelle had so "taken 
to each other," as she phrased it, turned with a new 
accession of amiability to Willard Dutton. That 
gentleman, however, was barely civil ; " horribly 
indifferent," Joanna thought as he sat watching 
Estelle and young Stapleford, and wishing, with 
Fanny Fern, " that one half the world warn't fools 
and the other half idiots." 

They say sorrow softens the heart. Why, then, 



174 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 



was Willard Button so cold and stern, and misan 
thropic ? 

Ah, he had spent his life sorrowing over wounds 
from the passion-flowers he had called love. He 
didn't believe there was any reality called love, 
and it made him angry to see those " little simple 
tons," as he mentally termed Estelle and Oswald, 
so deluded. 

'Twas gratifying, in the extreme, to Joanna Sta- 
pleford; as exciting as a romance to the insipid 
little piece of affectation denominated "Eliza Ellen." 
Amusing to the Staplefords in general, but a most 
ineffable bore to Mr. Willard Dutton, to observe 
the "love making" of Estelle and Oswald. It 
neither amused nor interested him, to see Estelle's 
face brighten and quiver, if a well known footstep 
approached. It was no curiosity for him to see two 
sentimental simpletons, with clasped hands, moon 
gazing. Then, such a ridiculous way they had of 
cutting their names, in the most loving proximity, 
on every tree that would receive such treatment by 
presenting a smooth surface; of marking every 
scrap of sentimental poetry that fell into their in 
sane hands. Then, such " idiotic glances," "Willard 
thought, as they were continually casting at each 
other, in utter obliviousness of any criticising eyes. 
Then, too, they had brief seasons of pique, during 
which time, Estelle would wear the most woe 
begone countenance imaginable, out of Oswald's 
presence, but no sooner did he appear than she 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 175 

became extremely loquacious, evincing a lively 
interest in the fate of every one save only Oswald. 
As to whether he " sank or swam, lived or died, 
survived or perished," she appeared perfectly indif 
ferent. While Oswald by turns grew cold and 
freezingly polite, then cross and nervous, then 
anxious and unhappy, and finally evinced such a 
world of penitent tenderness that Estelle would 
occasionally look at him when he was talking, and 
the next thing Stapleford household knew, Estelle 
and Oswald would be walking up the avenue, timid 
and happy. To a novel-reader all this would have 
been interesting in the extreme. 

Willard Button didn't read novels. Romance 
was his abomination ; sentiment he detested ; love 
he knew, by experience, to be a mocking humbug : 
ergo, the " daily walk and conversation" of Estelle 
and Oswald he considered an unendurable nui 
sance. 

" I've been here nearly two weeks," he muttered, 
savagely, "watching the little idiot lead on that 
fellow, just as Harriet Richards used to lead me 
on! What a stereotyped farce this love-making 
is ! Wonder how I could have been insane enough 
to enjoy it ! Ah, it takes years to bring wisdom !" 

Willard Dutton straightened his noble form, and 
tried to feel a satisfaction that he had gained this 
" wisdom" ; but somehow he wouldn't care if he 
could just feel the old thrilling rapture of his early 
manhood once more, just to see how it felt. He 
had almost forgotten. 



176 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" Bah !" he muttered, savagely striking the clover 
blossoms with his cane, " I used to feel it a seventh 
heaven to have hold of her soft, deceitful fingers ; 
and I always had a discontented feeling away from 
her, and a restless, impulsive, thumping heart in 
her presence, and to see her only aggravated me. 
I couldn't bear to think of her experiencing any 
emotion I didn't share ; and I felt an incipient 
desire to tyrannize, like wringing out from her being 
every other feeling but love for me. I felt strong 
enough to move the universe for her sake. Bah ! 
I was an unmitigated donkey ! I should have tired 
of her by this time. No doubt we'd have pouted 
and quarreled and outlived life's romance in six 
months." 

Ah, Willard Dutton ! Those old passion-flowers 
why will you cling so to the memory of them ? 
Why refuse to believe life has anything more beau 
tiful and substantial to offer ? 

Estelle would have been contented to linger for 
ever at Stapleford mansion, enchanted with the 
gaudy blossoms in her heart that, to her blinded 
vision, were radiant and beautiful; but a letter 
arrived from Cedar Hill, bearing the intelligence 
that Dr. Newman had been suddenly taken ill ; and 
urging Estelle's immediate return home. 

" Mr. Dutton will, for the sake of his friendship 
for your father, no doubt accompany you home," 
wrote Mrs. Newman, bitterly underlining "your 
father," as if conscious she possessed nothing that 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 177 

would bring him to Cedar Hill, neither friendship, 
gratitude, nor even cold esteem. 

Estelle was immediately bathed in tears because 
she said " Dear father was sick ;" but Willard Dut- 
ton told some invisible listener that he knew " the 
little idiot was only crying because she must leave 
the black eyes of Oswald Stapleford." 

It did seem to him, anyhow, that 'twas a woman's 
nature to be deceitful ! 

Why couldn't the unsophisticated little lunatic 
confess at once that her vanity craved Oswald's 
absurd extravagancies ? 

" Human nature ! The more he contemplated it, 
the more disgusted he became !" he solemnly aver 
red, as he went down to the grape arbor and sat 
down, hidden by the overhanging foliage. 

" Estelle, dear Estelle ! you won't quite forget 
me when we are separated, will you?" 

" How absurd !" thought Willard Button, as he 
perceived that Estelle and Oswald were looking as 
miserable as it was possible for them to look. With 
a contemptuous sneer he listened for Estelle's 
answer, and when he heard her sob he felt like 
getting up and shaking her for the unnecessary 
proceeding. 

" Tell me, Estelle darling, will you forget me ?" 

(" The hypocrite knows she won't !" thought 
Willard.) 

" Oh, Oswald, dear Oswald, how can I ever for 
get you ?" 

("How indeed?" sneered Mr. Willard Button.) 



178 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" Estelle, my own Estelle, I shall be miserable 
without you !" 

("Actually a pound of tartar emetic couldn't 
affect me any more," groaned the agonized lis 
tener.) 

I don't think it was any regard for their unap- 
preciative listener's tartar-emetic emotions that 
drew the lovers to another part of the garden, and 
though, after they left, Mr. Willard Dutton tried to 
persuade himself he experienced decided relief, yet 
he couldn't help but "wonder what the lunatics 
said next !" 

This interesting knowledge was probably spared 
him by some accommodating genius who under 
stood, appreciated and respected Mr. Willard But 
ton's nerves. 

'Twas early next morning when they took the 
stage for Louisville. Joanna charged Estelle not 
to forget her, but fixed her eyes upon Mr. Dutton 
as she spoke. He smiled, and good-humoredly 
made some playful remark about " A green spot in 
Memory's waste," at the same time ridiculing him 
self for the absurdity. 

Estelle sobbed and cried, and made a hundred 
vows of love ; to Joanna with her lips, to Oswald 
with her eyes, while that disconsolate young gen 
tleman perpetrated any amount of sighs and 
mournfully tender glances. 

" The puppy !" thought Willard, helping Estelle 
into the stage, and himself closing the door with a 
bang. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 179 

" I just think Mr. Dutton is the most detestable 
piece of flesh I ever did hate I" was Estelle's men 
tally delivered opinion as she gave that person's 
foot a spiteful little kick, and seemed trying to ex 
periment as to how small a space it was possible 
for her to occupy, in order to put as much distance 
as was possible between herself and " that bear," 
as she termed Willard. 

There she sat sobbing, and pouting, and fanning 
the frowns of vexations upon her heated brow, 
and, in every way, exhibiting her uncomfortable 
feelings. 

Mr. Dutton was cool as an iceberg. Once or 
twice he made faint attempts toward a conversa 
tion, but Estelle's monosyllables, and newly acquir 
ed dignity, was not striking for evincing a desire to 
aid him in the laudable attempt. 

At length, as if wearied by her obstinacy, he 
took a newspaper from the pocket of his linen- 
duster, and began to regale himself with the latest 
items of interest. 

" The horrid old savage ! How I should like to 
pinch him !" thought Estelle, seemingly making an 
effort to chew the ivory handle of her parasol. 

A boat would not leave for Livingston that eve 
ning, so they would be obliged to spend a night in 
Louisville. Willard communicated this informa 
tion as tenderly as if informing her that it would 
be necessary to remove her to a lunatic asylum for 
the rest of her life; and, indeed, Estelle could 



180 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

scarcely have received it with more ungraciousness 
than she did the announcement that she should be 
dependent on Mr. Dutton for entertainment an eve 
ning longer than she had screwed up her nerve and 
fortitude to endure. 

Estelle had a truly feminine propensity to cry, 
and forthwith began to indulge in that most inter 
esting of employments. 

" My dear child " began Willard. 

"His dear child, indeed!" sneered Estelle. 

" You must learn to bear patiently the ills of this 
life." 

"Nobody wants any of your preaching," was 
Estelle's mental comment as, in revenge for his un 
bearable condescension, she planted the heel of her 
new gaiter upon the faint outline of Mr. Willard 
Dutton's toe. He, however, took no notice of this 
proceeding, and Estelle experienced a feeling some 
what similar to what she imagined the fly must 
have felt when being assured by the ox that its 
weight had not been perceived. 

It was night when they arrived at Cedar Hill. 
Disdaining Mr. Dutton's proffered assistance, Es 
telle sprung lightly from the carriage, and a moment 
later was sobbing by the bedside of her father. Dr. 
Newman appeared some better than he had been, 
the nurse told Estelle, but she must not excite him, 
as every thing depended on perfect quiet. 



THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 181 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Willard !" 

Mrs. Newman !" 

'Twas all they said as they clasped hands in 
Cedar Hill drawing room. He was very calm, but 
oh, the passion-flowers were not all dead in the wo 
man's heart yet She had cherished them too ten 
derly to let anything purer grow there. How it 
maddened her to see that cold, proud face, whose 
silent sarcasm said, " Because of your perfidy I have 
hated womankind ! Because of the dazzling heights 
to which you led me, and from which you threw me 
into the deep vales of despair, I have cast out every 
feeling of love and hope and trust toward your 
kind." 

There was no word spoken to tell of this; but 
Harriet Newman read it on the calm face clearly as 
if an angel had revealed it unto her. 



Dr. Newman continued to grow worse, and on 
the evening of the tenth day Willard Dutton called 
Estelle into the library. She had been forbidden, 
at her father's request, to enter the sick chamber, as 
the fever was contagious. Suspense and anxiety 
had made her nervous and pale, and her heart beat 
painfully as Willard began, 

"Estelle, little Estelle, you remember the first 
time I ever saw you, how you let me comfort you in 



182 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

that childish grief ! I have loved you ever since, 
as if you had been my little sister. Won't you be 
brave now and trust me when I tell you I will watch 
over you tenderly as if you were the child of my 
dead mother?" 

What did it mean ? that long, affectionate speech 
from cold Mr. Dutton ! Estelle looked up wonder- 
ingly, and seeing the yearning look of compassion 
upon his face, she comprehended all as if by intu 
ition, and with a low, wailing shriek, moaned, 

" Oh, Mr. Dutton, my father is dead ! I know 
now what you mean by all that !" 

" Estelle, my poor child !" 

His voice was husky with its trembling weight of 
unshed tears. 

" Mother's dead, and father's gone too ; and now 
I've nobody to love me nobody to care for me !" 

" Estelle little Estelle ! I will love you, and take 
care of you all the days of my life. Your father 
gave you into my charge, and I will try to be faith 
ful to the trust ! Do you believe me, Estelle ?" 

She only sobbed and moaned with the helpless 
tears raining over her face that was very pale, with 
the woe of its desolate orphanage. 

Willard Dutton lingered at Cedar Hill. He had 
been chosen guardian for the children of Dr. New 
man, and he wished to help settle up the affairs of 
the deceased as much as possible. He had spoken 
nothing save the most common civilities, to Mrs. 
Newman, since her husband's death, and while she 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 183 

was longing for the brief year of mourning to be 
gone, he was making arrangements to buy Cedar 
Hill for himself and a widowed great-aunt, who 
would keep house for him. Harriet Newman enter 
ed not into his calculations. No the old passion 
flowers his heart once cherished were dead, quite 
dead. Mrs. Newman was going to the Northern 
part of Kentucky to spend the ensuing fall and 
winter with a sister of hers, whom she was quite 
certain would be completely overawed by her stylish 
mourning suit. Poor human nature 1 Estelle was 
to remain at Cedar Hill with Mr. Dutton, who had 
invited Joanna and Oswald Stapleford to spend the 
following winter, and perhaps divert, in some meas 
ure, Estelle's mind from her grief. When he told 
Estelle what he had done, she put her hand in his, 
and said, in the excess of her gratitude, 

" Mr. Dutton, you are very kind, and I do love 
you, even if I have seemed unmindful of all your 
goodness 1" 

Had Mr. Dutton been more susceptible and less 
experienced, he might have felt a queer thumping 
in the region of his heart, when this announcement 
was made by " sweet sixteen's" rosy lips, while her 
hand kept up a continued pressure that seemed to 
betray a regard bewildering in the extreme ; but 
Mr. Willard Dutton had gone through the interest 
ingly enlightening process sometimes denominated 
"cutting his eye teeth," ergo, he knew she was 
only expressing her gratitude for the prospect of 
seeing Oswald. 



184 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

Joanna Stapleford came with a fascinatingly sym 
pathetic expression of countenance, got up for the 
occasion, to be cast off so soon as she considered it 
prudent to do so. Oswald wore a subdued air of 
tenderness which Estelle thought " touching" in the 
extreme. At last her heart testified to its apprecia 
tion of it by a succession of throbs that would have 
seemed, to one unacquainted with its idiocyncrasies, 
an attempt to hammer itself out. 

One, two, three months the guests lingered, and 
Mrs. Prather, the housekeeper, declared she thought 
" them Staplefords was making a visitation, sure 
enough." 

Joanna was using her best efforts to captivate 
Mr. Dutton, but though that gentleman listened 
amiably to her remarks, and though the young lady 
wrote home every other week that " Mr. Dutton had 
been on the point of proposing several times, when 
something interrupted him," yet it would appear, 
that mysterious "something" still continued, without 
any alleged reason, to interrupt him, for no letter 
arrived at Stapleford mansion informing them of 
Joanna's permanent residence at Cedar Hill. 

Although 'twas December, the day was bright 
and loving as a young mother's smile over the face 
of her first-born. Mr. Dutton sat alone in the libra 
ry, and through the open window came the soft 
winds, as if whispering that spring had come on a 
visit to winter. But not of this was he thinking. 
Oswald had asked his consent to make Estelle his 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 185 

wife. Mr. Dutton had declined giving his answer 
until he should have a private interview with her; 
so, while the spring sunbeams, that had wandered 
down to December, leaped in warm radiance 
through the long avenue, Willard sat waiting for an 
answer to his summons. She came at last, orphan 
Estelle, blushing and trembling, and wondering 
whether she was most miserable or happy. A kind 
of uncertain feeling had possession of her she 
could not describe it. 

" Estelle," he began, " there are a great many 
unhappy marriages in the world." 

(" All old bachelors think that," affirmed some 
inward oracle in whom Estelle had the most sublime 
faith.) 

" Well," she said impatiently, as if to shorten the 
pause he had made, as if to regard the effect of his 
words. 

" This arises in some measure," he continued, ap 
parently unmindful of Estelle's impatience, " from 
having mistaken a fleeting fancy for an abiding 
affection. Very young persons should not trust too 
much to their impulses, but should wait until the 
voice of reason and matured intellect shall guide 
them." 

" I suppose that's the reason you've waited so 
long you hard-hearted old savage," thought the 
young girl. She was nervous, and almost without 
willing it, the words crossed her lips. " Well 
please Mr. Dutton, excuse me from any farther dis- 

13 



186 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

sertation on this subject ; and give me a decided 
answer." 

A painful flush swept the proud paleness of Wil- 
lard Dutton's face at these words, and he said 
almost sternly, 

" Your dying father appointed me your guardian, 
Estelle." 

The tones touched her heart. The pale, solemn 
face, from which the transient flush had faded, filled 
her with remorse, and bursting into tears she sank 
down on a low stool at his feet and sobbed " For 
give me, Mr. Dutton, I'm nervous and sick; and 
I'm miserable anyhow." 

"My poor child !" Willard's hand, moving over 
the soft bands of her hair, said this quite as much 
as his tones did and feeling both, Estelle's face 
grew soft, almost tender with gratitude. 

" I only desire your happiness, my child. If you 
will wait a year, and then desire to marry Oswald 
Stapleford, I will not oppose you ; but now you are 
too young. Will you wait, little girl ?" 

" Yes," she answered, almost glad, she knew not 
why, that he had suggested this waiting a year. In 
that time she could analyze the great burden of her 
heart, and see whether it was love, or joy, or wretch 
edness that weighed so heavily. 

On learning Estelle's intention to wait a year, 
Oswald determined to leave Cedar Hill so soon as 
the next boat should start for Louisville. In vain 
did Joanna entreat him to stay two weeks longer. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 187 

She was certain Mr. Button would come to the 
point in that time; but that gentleman possessed 
Oswald's most cordial animosity, and spite of Joan 
na's assertion that he was a "splendid catch," 
Oswald wrote that the Stapleford family might 
expect them that day two weeks. Joanna was in 
despair, and finding threats and entreaties of no 
avail, resorted to tears. Mr. Dutton felt called upon 
to inquire if he could relieve her distress. 

" No, no," she said mournfully, yet experiencing 
an unconquerable desire to wring Willard's nose 
for his stupidity in not proposing. " I hope you'll 
remember, when I'm gone, that I enjoyed myself 
here very much ; and shall be ever grateful for 
your kind hospitality !" sobbed Joanna. 

Mr. Dutton looked as if he didn't exactly under 
stand the necessity of remembering this, neverthe 
less he bowed and " hoped she would visit there 
often, as her society seemed to be conducive to 
Estelle's happiness." 

"You horrid savage!" muttered Joanna, as Wil- 
lard left the room to attend to something that Mrs. 
Prather said needed his assistance. 

"That hateful Mrs. Prather! she is the most 
vigilant old duenna I ever did see !" was Joanna's 
privately delivered opinion of the worthy personage 
who considered it her duty to " keep an eye on 
Williird, lest he should make a fool of himself by 
proposing to that Stapleford girl." 

When Oswald first declared his intention of 



188 THE STEPMOTHEE'S FAILURE. 

leaving Cedar Hill, he had given a half-dignified 
promise to write to Estelle ; but, when the morning 
of his departure arrived, his dignity melted 'neath 
the warmth of his tenderness like snow in the sun 
shine, and he entreated Estelle, in the most pathetic 
tones, to remain faithful to him, and to write every 
week. 

Joanna assured Mr. Button she should leave her 
heart at " Cedar Hill." This information, interest 
ing though it was, produced no other feeling in the 
gentleman's breast than a momentary wonder in 
what particular spot the young lady would leave 
the enormous article that he had no doubt, from its 
size and extreme susceptibility, was rather trouble 
some to carry. Of this, however, Mr. Dutton gave 
no expression, merely hoping, in a half playful tone, 
" that she would feel the loss of it so much as to 
induce a speedy return to Cedar Hill." 

" I would like to know, for curiosity, just how 
thick your skull is," mentally affirmed Joanna, as 
she bade Willard " farewell," in the ladies' cabin of 
steamer C . 

This important information being denied her, 
she began reproaching Oswald for his haste in leav 
ing Cedar Hill. 

" Hurry, indeed !" growled Oswald, " it lacks only 
two weeks of being four months that we staid there. 
If a man can't propose in that time he's too slow to 
talk about 1 Estelle didn't stay at our house but 
two weeks, and 1 thought it quite long enough for 
me to express my mind in regard to her !" 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILUEE. 189 

Joanna was not convinced, and ventured to ex 
plain to Oswald. 

"In going up a flight of steps if one should 
become weary and jump off at next to the last step, 
he would not reach the beauties of the upper cham 
ber after all his labor. So, although we did stay a 
long time, yet one week more might have been the 
last step, that would have placed me mistress of 
Cedar Hill 1" 

"Nonsense, Sis, Willard Button is too long a 
step-ladder for you to attempt climbing. You had 
as well give up first as last," growled Oswald, as he 
walked away, leaving Joanna to " chew the cud of 
bitter fancies !" 



CHAPTER IX. 

MR. WILLARD BUTTON'S DEFINITION OF LOVE AND 
PASSION. 

" I don't think love is such a great thing after all, 
as I imagined," soliloquized Estelle, as she tore up 
the envelope of Oswald's last letter, in a kind of 
absent minded way. " When Oswald was here, I 
was always wondering how I looked, and if he had 
found out any of my faults ; and I was nervous and 
restless any how. Now it's so nice and quiet read 
ing in the library, to Mr. Dutton, or taking horse 
back rides, or pleasant walks. Then my face don't 
feel always so uncomfortably warm, as it did when 



190 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

Oswald was here. Dear Oswald, I do love him 
better than anybody else ; and when we are mar 
ried I'll get Mr. Dutton to let us live here, so that 
when Oswald goes away from home, I can have a 
nice, quiet time, reading and writing, and talking in 
the library, with Mr. Dutton, like I do now !" 

Oswald's letters came regularly, full of the most 
ardent protestations of affection, and never failing 
to make what he invariably declared to be, a " vain 
attempt" to describe his loneliness and desolation 
out of her angelic presence. All this was very en 
tertaining, and never failed to make Estelle happy 
and boisterous ; yet sometimes she did wish he 
would leave out just a little " love," and write some 
thing intellectual and elevating, such as Mr. Dutton 
talked. 

" Pshaw ! Mr. Dutton is so much older ! Oswald 
is not twenty-one yet! How could I expect him to 
talk so now? After a while when he gets older, 
when our honeymoon is over, and there'll be no 
thing to separate us any more, then he will talk to 
me of mind, and books, and religion !" 

And Estelle's higher nature looked off with more 
eagerness to this sweet period than to the romance 
and excitement of the honeymoon. 

Sometimes, after grasping the brilliant thoughts 
and beautiful truths of Willard Dutton's mind, she 
would seize her pen and write in a more noble and 
intellectual strain than was her wont. She would 
tell Oswald how she was longing to improve and 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 191 

elevate the intellect God had given her. She 
would ask almost pleadingly, did not his mind 
grasp continually after something higher and more 
ennobling than it had ever known? Feverishly 
would she await his answer, only to turn with a 
sigh and a tear, half mingled with a flushing smile 
of tenderness, as she read, 

"Your love, Estelle, is sufficient for me. I can 
repose contentedly in it, desiring nothing more. 
Never mind cultivating your head; only cultivate 
your heart for me, darling !" 

Sometimes she would write two or three of those 
soul-letters in succession; then a wild reproach 
would come from Oswald that she did not love 
him. 

" He could tell it from the cold, intellectual let 
ters that came from her head, not from her heart." 

Poor Estelle ! What should she do? Mr. Dut- 
ton generally read her letters. He never asked to, 
but somehow he always looked at them so wistfully 
that she couldn't well avoid letting him see them. 
How could she let him see nothing but sentiment 
nothing but stale repititions of a " love" that was 
sometimes half tiresome. She would write some 
thing that would make him look at her with one of 
his rare, beautiful smiles, even if Oswald did up 
braid her. 

This young gentleman becoming offended at her 
persistent disregard of his wishes, ceased his ten 
der upbraidings, and maintained a freezing formal- 



192 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

ity so distressing that Estelle returned to the old 
style of sentiment. 



'Twas a damp, rainy evening in the fickle spring 
time. A fire was burning in the library ; and Mr. 
Dutton sat wrapped in a reverie that, judging from 
the slight contraction of his brow and the restless 
motion of his fingers, was half painful. 

" May I come in, Mr. Dutton ?" 

It was Estelle's voice at the door, and as its 
trembling, discontented cadence floated in, he 
started with surprise as he answered, 

"Yes." 

She sat down upon a low seat at his side, and 
leaning her head against the arm of his chair, burst 
into tears. 

" What is it, little girl ?" he asked, taking hold 
of the hand that lay in tempting proximity to his 
own. 

" You are a great deal older than I am," she be 
gan, hesitatingly. 

" No one could, I believe, be inclined to doubt 
that," quietly remarked the gentleman addressed, 
while the faintest gleam of a smile half brightened, 
half shadowed his mouth. 

" Well do tell me why people get so tired of each 
other after they marry?" asked Estelle, choking 
down a sob. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 193 

" You are aware, I suppose, that I don't know 
this fact by actual experience" answered Willard, 
while the shadowy smile deepened into positive 
triumph that this was the fact. 

" Don't trifle with me, Mr. Dutton ! Please tell 
me why it is ? You'll die after a while just as 
father did ; and oh, when you're gone, and I've 
nobody to talk to me, what should I do if Oswald 
got tired of me ? Please tell me why people get 
tired of each other, and I'll try to prevent our get 
ting that way !" 

Willard Dutton smoothed back the soft hair 
from her forehead and commenced very delibe 
rately, 

" For some years I had ridiculed the feeling de 
nominated Love. I had no faith in it, and felt a 
proud ability to live without it I looked upon the 
discontented faces of married couples as only 
proofs what a sublime humbug the whole thing 
was ! But of late I have thought and read much 
upon the subject) and will give you what is merely 
my opinion. You can, of course, accept it at its 
true value." 

He paused a moment as if shrinking from giving 
expression to the sacred thoughts that were very 
deep down. 

" Go on," said Estelle, breathlessly. 

He released her hand, leaned back farther into 
the depths of that old arm chair, and continued, 
with the air of one talking more to himself than 
any one else, 



194 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" There are, I think, in every heart two angels, 
Love and Passion. Passion spreads her gaudy 
wings and wraps the heart in a wild, intoxicating 
dream of bliss, whose presiding genius is some 
mortal invested with supernatural perfection. No 
fault, no evidence of frail humanity is allowed to 
present itself and prevent the intoxicated heart 
from kneeling in wild worship to this image. The 
angel Love stands afar off, with meekly folded 
wings, waiting to see if the foolish heart will be 
satisfied with that insane ecstasy which has no rea 
son in it no sure foundation for its duration, but is 
like the phantasmagoria of a dream. Nine-tenths 
of the world call this Love. Coarser minds would 
perhaps prefer it to Love ; but after marriage, when 
there are no exciting separations and jealous doubts 
to keep up the romance and uncertainty, Passion's 
work is done. She strips the gilded figure of its 
beauties, shows all the deformities she once hid so 
carefully, and so weariness, and disgust, and un- 
happiness follow. But should a good Providence 
so chasten the heart as to drive from its pure pre 
cincts the gaudy Passion-wings and gilded idol, 
then the angel Love unplumes her snowy pinions 
over the yearning heart. She does not hide a loved 
one's faults, but with the imperfections shows, too, 
the great shining virtues that dwell with these evi 
dences of humanity. The heart does not leap and 
flutter, and bound suddenly into a wild ecstasy 
merely from a word or glance, as when shadowed 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 195 

by Passion's wings. No, Love plants a tiny sprig, 
and frequent intercourse of congenial natures, with 
a firm golden link of religion binding them, will 
draw the two souls together until the little plant 
has grown and nourished in eternal beauty and 
fragrance. Reaching out its wide-spreading roots 
gradually, mind, not suddenly, until they embrace 
every fibre, and have grown with the very life- 
cords of one's being. Thus it is, while Passion 
dies, Love is a blossom that no life-tempest may 
blight or injure. It smiles in the sunshine of Pros 
perity, lifts up proudly its noble head, defying the 
storms of Adversity, and drops from its pure petals, 
over earth's dark places, a shining light that is like 
unto nothing save the morning light of eternity." 

He paused. The firelight burned dimly the 
rain beat against the window-pane, and over Es- 
telle's face gushed tears from some unsealed, un 
hidden fountain, as she asked, 

" Did you ever love anybody, Mr. Dutton ?" 

" Every heart has its passion-dream," he answer 
ed, evasively. 

" But could you love anybody ?" she persisted. 

" Perhaps so," he replied, smiling. " Could you ?'' 

" Oh yes. I've felt this love-angel standing back 
in a sacred corner of my heart, but I didn't know 
what it was. Oh, Mr. Dutton, I want to love 
somebody, but I don't know who to love." 

She spoke impulsively, never thinking how it 
sounded, and for the moment forgetting Oswald 
Stapleford. 



196 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 



" When ' Our Father' tells the love-angel in your 
heart to plant the Eternity blossom, 'twill be done. 
Wait patiently, my child, and do not be contented 
with the fading glory of a passion-dream." 

He spoke solemnly, with a radiance shining over 
his face like a bright reflection from the love-angel's 
wings. They had both forgotten Oswald. Estelle 
was the first to remember him, and she asked 
timidly, 

" Do I love Oswald Stapleford, Mr. Dutton ?" 
A darkness came over his face as he answered, 
"You must be the judge of your own heart, my 
child !" 

An impartial judge she was, indeed, with that 
same heart thumping, and throbbing, and aching, 
and reproaching her for wanting some excuse to 
break off her engagement with Oswald. Of course 
'twas love she felt for him, if not, she had been a 
most arrant little hypocrite. How often she had 
told Oswald she loved him better than any one 
else ! What did she mean by all that ? conscience 
demanded sternly ! How much better would she 
feel after she had broken Oswald's heart? It con 
tinued, and if she didn't marry Oswald, whom 
would she marry ? Would she be an old maid ? 
And when Mr. Dutton got old and died, as her 
father did, she would be homeless and friendless. 
'Twas a woman's destiny to marry ! So Estelle 
reasoned, and that night a letter went out to Oswald 
tender enough to suit even his fastidious fancy. 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 197 

Willard Dutton read it over, and wondered if his 
story about love and passion was not, after all, a 
delusive humbug. Yes, he was certain it was. 
" And yet," he soliloquized, " 'twas rather a pleas 
ant fancy." 

After this he grew colder and sterner than ever, 
and Estelle could not but congratulate herself that 
she had not cast off Oswald's love as a passion. 
And yet there were times when she felt great needs 
in her woman's nature that nothing she had ever 
known could satisfy. There were some heart- 
hymns whose grand, sacred harmony seemed ever 
calling out for a response, ever seeking to penetrate 
the shining gateway of stars, until an answering 
music should fill up the solemn waiting of its tender 
pauses. Mr. Dutton decided that they should visit 
" Crab Orchard" when the days grew tender and 
loving with June sunbeams. Estelle was pleased 
with the idea of going, for though the honeysuckles 
drooped their golden and crimson bloom over the 
long galleries, and though the roses budded and 
blossomed like fair young cheeks in the morning of 
life; yet Mr. Dutton had grown very cold and 
silent. Oswald had exhausted his vocabulary of 
endearing epithets, so Estelle longed for a change. 

She had become restless and nervous of late, 
and Mr. Dutton thought 'twould be an advantage 
for her to leave the monotony of " Cedar Hill." A 
letter was immediately dispatched to Oswald, stat 
ing, that as " Crab Orchard" was not far distant 



198 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

from Stapleford mansion, they would probably visit 
there before their return home. The gay scenes 
in which they mingled would be tedious in detail. 
Estclle had wealth, ergo, many admirers, as wealth 
in Kentucky is the chief attraction, and yet after 
spending a whole evening conversing with the but 
terflies of fashion, she would turn away weary and 
disgusted at finding that she had gained not a sin 
gle new idea nor lofty inspiration. 

Ah ! Ball-room conversations were quite differ 
ent affairs from the quiet, invigorating chats in 
Cedar Hill library. Sometimes she would turn to 
Mr. Dutton with a great craving for some thought- 
gems like unto those which brightened memory's 
face with a radiance beautiful as a first-born's smile 
in a mother's heart. And yet, in spite of her plead 
ing look, Mr. Dutton would sometimes turn half 
impatiently and beckon Oswald to take charge of 
her. 'Twas mortifying to be treated like a trouble 
some child, but Estelle remembered too many of 
her willful, childish whims, to feel it injustice. And 
looking at the proud, elegant man of the world, who 
bore so indifferently the determined feminine attacks 
made upon his heart, Estelle wondered if that could 
be the same Mr. Dutton whom she had sometimes 
imagined did really love her as a little sister. Then 
he had, after all, only read and talked to her be 
cause she was dependent upon him for entertain 
ment, and not because she was intelligent enough 
to render herself agreeable to him. Now that she 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 199 

had others to amuse and interest, he seemed almost 
oblivious of her existence. 

These were a few of Estelle's cogitations, and is 
it strange that every thing soon became " stale," 
" stereotyped," " insipid," and that with a pout and 
a sigh, she entreated Mr. Dutton to leave for 
Cedar Hill ? She was worn out, she said, too much 
fatigued to enjoy a visit to the Stapleford's. 

Mr. Dutton bore her impatience very calmly, 
merely remarking that 'twould not be convenient 
to leave for a day or two, as he had received a let 
ter from Mrs. Newman, stating that she would 
meet them at the Springs, and return with them to 
Cedar Hill. 

She made no reply, but the mellow moonlight, 
whose soft smiles rippled over the summer hills, 
knew that Estelle sobbed bitterly in the solitude of 
her chamber. She was " tired," she said, so tired of 
every thing and everybody ; and, like an estranged 
friend come back from a distant land, to bind up 
the broken links of love, an old memory came from 
the far country of her life's morning, and again she 
was yearning, as in the old child-days, to lie down 
in the arms that were folded under the clover blos 
soms, close beside another grave, her father's 1 

" Mother, father, if your little Estelle had only 
died, too!" she murmured, while tears trembled 
over the fevered, flushing of her cheek, like sum 
mer rain over the honeysuckles at Cedar Hill. 

Mrs. Newman did not announce, to impatient 



200 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

Estelle, her readiness to leave Crab Orchard, for 
more than a week after her arrival there. 

Oswald Stapleford did not accompany Estelle 
home, as had been his intention, for the morning 
before their departure he received a letter, telling 
of his mother's sudden illness, and requesting his 
immediate presence. 

Mrs. Newman had arrived at the full maturity of 
her beauty, and when this is considered in addition 
to her golden charms, it is not strange that she, too, 
attracted much admiration. Yet turning from it all 
she sought only the approval of one who alone 
seemed indifferent to her fascinations. 

" Cedar Hill," she declared, " looked so natural 
and home-like, that 'twas refreshing to be there 
again." 

She had left her noisy children with her sister, 
lest their uugoverned tempers, and unruly behavior 
should make Willard shrink from the responsibility 
of a closer relation. 

Estelle devoted herself to her studies, and cor 
respondence with Oswald. Mrs. Newman made 
the house echo with her music, and seemed con 
stantly seeking some additional charm in dress or 
manner, that would captivate Willard, who seemed 
to find no enjoyment in this life, saive in solitary 
strolls, fishing excursions, and such employments 
as forbade Mrs. Newman and Estelle's accompany 
ing him. 

The July morning broke into a smile of joy and 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 201 

beauty over the hill-tops and valleys. Mr. Willard 
Dutton sat alone in the library, close by a low win 
dow, through which the morning winds came as if 
to tell their story of the sweets they had gathered. 
There was a light tap on the door, and then Mrs. 
Newman entered. 

Leaning her wistful face over the balustrade, 
Estelle saw the figure enter the library, and, with 
out knowing why, a sharp agony settled over the 
still shadows of her face. Back she turned, going 
very slowly to the seat that she had left, when she 
heard Mrs. Newman in the hall below. She sat 
down and, with mechanical calmness, took up the 
book she had lain down. 

The sunbeams glistened and flashed as if in joy 
for the bright day that was born unto the earth. 
The sweet summer winds came up laden with bird- 
music and flower-fragrance ; yet ihe radiance of the 
sunlight seemed to Estelle like the flash and glitter 
of a cruel knife held over her life-cords. The morn 
ing winds seemed a cold shiver, as if from touching 
a newly shrouded corpse ; and the soft bird-music 
a low requiem over a fresh-made grave. She sat 
feeling this " unlanguaged pain," and when an hour 
later Mrs. Newman came up and said, " Congratu 
late me, Estelle, Willard and I are to be married a 
month from to-day," she did not grow any whiter, 
nor see any darker deeps in the open grave that 
yawned in her heart, waiting for its burden. She 
had known it from intuition, and a confirmation of 
it by words did not startle her. 

14 



202 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" Don't speak of it to Willard, darling, he is so 
fastidious about such things !" said Mrs. Newman. 

Estelle made no reply, but drawing from her 
smallest finger the ring Willard had given her on a 
never-to-be-forgotten morning, she went down into 
the library, and said, 

" Here is the ring you once gave me with a con 
tract. I ought to have given it back to you long 
ago." 

Then some withered leaves of Hope and Joy 
fluttered into the hidden grave. 

Mr. Dutton scarcely looked up from his writing 
as he said, 

" Put it down ! 'Tis no matter 1" 

" No matter" to him no. But Estelle went slow 
ly down, the worn way of the years that had passed, 
to the morning when he gave her that ring, and 
gathering up, from all that crowded the land of the 
Past, that one sacred hour of her existence, she 
carried it up tenderly to the Present, caressing it 
fondly, with memory's quivering kisses, and then 
casting it, too, upon the withered leaves, that had 
drifted into the open grave, very far down. 

"Oh, Willard Dutton! Willard Dutton," she 
murmured, " Why did you tell me of the two angels 
in my heart ? Then Oswald's love my own sweet, 
transient dream would have sufficed !" 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILUBE. 203 

CHAPTER X. 

DENOUEMENT. 

'Twas a long tear-stained sheet, beseeching Os 
wald Stapleford to search his own heart thoroughly 
and see if he could love her all the days of his life, 
and at last, when he laid her down beside her mo 
ther, look through quivering tears upon the face he 
had never wearied of ? When she was sick, and 
tired, and lonesome, would he hold her in his arms 
and smile down tenderly in her face, and " oh, Os 
wald, Oswald," she pleaded, " when I am dead will 
you sometimes yearn to gaze down upon the still 
face that the Autumn grasses will hide from you? 
Tell me this, Oswald, for the burden of life presses 
very heavily upon my soul to-day ?" She waited 
three weeks for an answer, and then it came. 

Wearying of her capricious moods, her long 
periods of neglect, her " head-letters" Oswald wrote, 
that though he loved her very dearly as a sister- 
friend, yet a new and stronger affection had awaken 
ed up in his heart for one whose nature was nearer 
akin to his own " more ardent, more affectionate, 
and more expressive than Estelle's," he wrote. 

She was standing on one of the long honeysuckle 
draped galleries and, as she finished reading the 
letter, Mr. Dutton heard a low shriek of anguish, 
and a moment later he bore a light, insensible form 
into the nearest room. Mrs. Newman followed, 
bearing the letter, whose contents she scanned 



204 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 



eagerly, and held up to Willard, triumphantly, to 
show how dearly Estelle had loved Oswald Staple- 
ford. 

"Poor child! The human heart never knows 
but one love, the love of its youth !" said Mrs. New 
man, glancing toward Willard as she bent over the 
white face of orphan Estelle. 

"'Tis false!" exclaimed Willard Dutton, impera 
tively, with a stamp of his foot that showed how 
the great deeps of his nature were stirred. 

Mrs. Newman looked up with a pale, sarcastic 
smile. Willard answered it with an angry brow, 
then went into the library, leaving Mrs. Newman to 
restore the stricken girl. 

After this, Estelle was very quiet. The old child 
ish fretfulness was all gone. The eager sparkle 
went out from her eyes, and the glad flushing from 
her cheek. She never spoke of Oswald. She only 
wrote, in answer to his letter, " You are free ! May 
God grant you the sunshine of life. ESTELLK !" 

" She did love him, after all," said Willard Dut 
ton, as he saw how pale and penitent she grew, 
while a soft ethereal radiance bathed her face like 
summer starlight. 

" Poor child ! From a passion dream there comes 
an awakening but a love dream only the morning 
liirht of eternity may dispel !" After this soliloquy 
Willard grew more tender and thoughtful of Es- 
tclle's comfort. Now he would take her riding and 
walking, and though Mrs. Newman always accom- 



THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. 205 

parried them, yet he ever turned to Estelle with the 
forbearing consideration that one would have shown 
to a child. And though her smile was very faint 
and solemn, struggling through her tears like a sad 
moonbeam through the lilies over her dead mother's 
grave, yet she was very grateful for Willard's kind 
ness, and ventured to ask, 

" Mr. Button, when you are married, may I live 
with you ?" 

He started, as if from a reverie, and answered, 
" Yes, little Estelle, you may live with me always !" 

Mr. Willard Dutton had spent the long, bright 
evening at the village, and when he returned, instead 
of going into the house, he thought he would sit 
down under the soft baptismals of honeysuckle 
fragrance. The long, low windows of the drawing- 
room were open. Mrs. Newman was caroling a gay 
song, and as she ceased Willard heard Estelle's 
voice break up eager and pleading, " Oh, Cousin 
Hattie," (she had called her this since Dr. New 
man's death,) "you do love Mr. Dutton very much, 
don't you ?" 

" Why, certainly !" Mrs. Newman replied. 

Estelle went on, with a voice that to Willard 
Dutton was the sweetest heart-hymn he had ever 
heard. 

" His love is the brightest treasure the world can 
ever bring. You will prize it as you should, won't 
you? You will try to make him happy, and never, 
never prefer your own will to his? Promise me 
tins !" 



206 THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 

" Certainly, child, if it will afford you any satis 
faction," returned Mrs. Newman carelessly. 

" Oh, Cousin Hattie ! he is so noble, so good, so 
worthy of a life's devotion ! Oh, say you will never 
turn impatiently from his caresses, as you sometimes 
did from father's !" 

Mrs. Newman flushed and said, " Certainly not !" 

" And when I'm sleeping with mother and father 
you will tell him how my mother's wings smiled 
over him when he was so good to her orphan child. 
And, oh ! you will tell him how grateful I was, and 
how some day in Heaven my father will say, ' Wil- 
lard Dutton, you have been faithful to the trust I 
reposed in you.' You will tell him all this, Cousin 
Hattie, won't you? Pve tried to tell him, but 
somehow the tears choke me so I cannot talk to 
him 1" 

"Yes, yes, I'll tell him all," she answered, and 
Willard got up softly and entered his favorite haunt, 
the library. They did not hear him go in, and half 
an hour later, when Estelle had been to return a 
book she had been reading, somebody said, " Es 
telle, little Estelle," and she felt her two hands 
prisoned. 'Twas Mr. Dutton that held her hands, 
and he that said, " The eternity blossom is bloom 
ing fresh, and fair, and fragrant in my heart. The 
old passion dream is forgotten, and, Estelle, you 
know what I would say. Will you ? will you be 
the sunbeam in whose brightness I shall forget all 
the shaded past ?" 



THE STEPMOTHER'S FAILURE. 207 

" But are you and Cousin Hattie not to be mar 
ried ?" asked Estelle, holding breathlessly the sweet 
joy that would fain spring up in her heart. 

" No," said Willard ; I told her of my love for 
you, and when that same morning you gave me 
back the ring you had worn so long, I felt that you 
were kindly sparing me the pain of a word rejec 
tion; and oh, little Estelle, you do not know how I 
have suffered since that terrible morning !" 

" I thought you and she were going to be married, 

and and " Estelle's face told the story the 

suffering, the desolation that had passed because 
the love angel had wakened up in her heart for one 
whom she had thought lost to her forever. 

" Say, little Estelle, has the angel come out from 
the shaded corner and unplumed its wings 'neath 
the blue sky of your heart ?" 

She answered, " Yes." 

"And when September laid her crimson post 
script on the green page of summer," the angel 
book-keeper recorded, of Estelle Newman and Wil 
lard Button, what is seldom written of those who 
walk together on earth " In heart, in soul, and in 
mind they were married." 



Home from the War, 



[Dedicated to Major Oliver L. Baldwin.] 

Across the twilight's shadowy gloom 
Like mother-smiles the starbeams blow, 
And o'er the faded jasmine bloom 
The Summer breezes come and go. 
The Summer breezes come and go, 
A gladdened breath, a triumph-strain, 
As lovely waters ebb and flow 
When joyous with an evening rain. 

A triumph-strain they come, I said, 
A pean for the gallant brave, 
And yet a requiem for the dead, 
Who rest within their battle-grave, 
The noble ones who fought and fell 
When battling for a nation's right, 
They sank in death and yet a spell 
Protected thee with God-like might. 

Was it thy sainted mother's wings 

That hovered o'er thy brave young head ? 



HOME FROM THE WAB. 209 

Was it the strength prayer ever brings, 
Or wert thou by an angel led ? 
Oh, patriot brave ! My bosom thrills 
With thoughts my lips may never speak, 
I strive to check the fount that fills 
With tears the flushings of my cheek. 

I strive to hush the voice that cries 
Along the uplands in my heart ! 
I strive to write with tearless eyes 
How noble and how brave thou art 
And yet my woman's heart will tell 
Of battle-fields all stained with gore, 
Where noble patriots fought and fell 
To battle for us nevermore. 

They poured their blood like Summer-rain 
They only thought of Victory ! 
They heeded not wild cries of pain 
Nor death -for they were led by thee. 
No wonder that they faltered not 
But fought " like freemen to be free," 
When ringing o'er that battle-spot 
Was the wild cry for " Liberty /" 



To Him who can best Understand, 



Til wear thy keepsake on my heart, 
The tiny, sparkling, glittering thing, 
As if its glare could heal the smart 
Or sunshine to my bosom bring. 

A tiny cord shall hold it there, 
Like that which links my soul to thine, 
A transient tie and yet how fair 
Above a desolated shrine. 

The darkness of a loveless life 
Enshrouds me with its wearying gloom, 
A gloom with bitter mem'ries rife 
A shadow full of blighted bloom. 

I cry for love with pleading moan, 
Yet when 'tis offered turn with scorn, 
For soon the transient thing is flown 
Like fairy mists of fickle morn. 

I pine for love, yet hate the name, 
I scorn the loon who dares to say 



TO HIM WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND. 211 

His heart will e'er remain the same 
Though countless ages roll away. 

" The same, the same" yes smiling morn 
To darkened earth of sunshine sings, 
Yet fickle morn leaves earth forlorn 
And to the night her glory brings. 

" The same, the same," yes, flowers bloom 
And cheat the earth with fragrance rare, 
And yet in chilly Autumn's gloom 
They leave her desolate and bare. 

I plead for love, yet senseless cry, 
The moan, how silly and how vain, 
My faith is wrecked 'neath the lone sky 
That memory hangs o'er heart and brain. 



To Mrs, M, A, S- 



Oh, tender face by love made fair, 
Oh, gentle eyes of shining blue ! 
Oh, sunny bands of golden hair, 
Oh, brave heart, faithful, fond and true! 
I reach my hands along the dark 
Of starless Fate, with pleading moan 
And steer the shivering of Life's bark 
To meet the safety of thy own. 
With drooping wing my lone heart flies 
Through weary paths her tears can see 
And strains her wistful, pleading eyes 
And yearns for safety and for thee. 

The dark clouds wrap the soulless sky, 
The drear waves beat the rocky shore, 
The winds along the uplands cry 
Their raven-plaint of " Nevermore" 
And through the silence and the gloom 
Like some lone sea-bird of the night, 
That hovers o'er an ocean tomb, 
My heart goes pleading for the light. 



TO MRS. M. A. S . 213 

The light, the light, oh, faithful heart, 
That breaks upon a golden shore, 
Where thou wilt know how dear thou art 
And hold my hand forevermore. 

Oh, Life had been a drearier woe, 
Oh, Fate had furled a blacker wing, 
Oh, transient Ijopes that ebb and flow, 
Had left my heart a wearier thing 
Had not thy love, oh, tender heart, 
Bent like " a rainbow o'er the tomb," 
For seeing e'er how brave thou art, 
My Faith looks upward through the gloom. 
Though memories flutter through the mist 
And lay their fingers cold and chill 
Upon the heart thy love has kissed 
With flushings full of light and thrill, 

Yet, tender heart, my Faith looks back 
And bends herself on Calvary's hill, 
And scorning all the weary track 
Of life, casts off the damp and chill. 
Casts off the chill and decks her wings 
With rainbow-tintings ot God's love, 
And leaving transient, earthly things, 
Looks off to radiant lands above, 
Looks off and glowing angel-sights 
Burst on her glad enraptured gaze, 
And reaching towards the Eternal heights, 
Her hands are full of love and praise. 



Marion Grey, 

Oh Marion Grey, the violets blow, 

Over the paths of the Winter snow, 

And the gay young birds in the branches sing, 

On the breast of the April-hearted Spring, 

And the sunbeams fall as fond and fair, 

As the golden curls of a baby's hair. 

Oh Marion Grey, on the shadowy track 
Of your memory, doth the past come back? 
Doth the blackness drop from a mad life-woe, 
Do you stand again in the " Long Ago ?" 
Do you see the roses bud and blow, 
And feel your pulses ebb and flow, 
While hopes and wishes come and go, 
As they were wont to, long ago f 

Ah Marion Grey, how the years creep by, 
Like a tear borne down on the breast of a sigh ; 
Like a cloud that floats o'er the noonday sun, 
Or a rain that comes when the day is done. 
And I lean o'er the hearthstone in my heart, 
Where a joyous flame was wont to start, 



MARION GREY. 215 

And over the ashes cold and gray, 
My heart half yearns, in the old fond way, 
For the vanished light of a gladsome day, 
That was bright with thy love, Marion Grey. 

And, Marion Grey, the pain in my heart, 
Where the joyous throb was wont to start, 
Grows deeper and deeper, day by day, 
As I gaze on the ashes cold and gray, 
Of garlands once so grand and gay, 
The bloom of thy love, Marion Grey ! 

Oh Marion Grey, do the demons know, 
Two madder words in eternal woe, 
Than the words that were our cruel fate, 
The words that haunt me now, " too lateF 
" Too late," too late, in midnight dreams 
The words come back with fitful gleams, 
Of all I've cherished, " loved and lost," 
In wretched " triumphs" of terrible cost ! 

And now o'er the waste that thy love made, 
O'er the grave where my fondest dreams are laid, 
O'er the shadowy deep of my wrecked heart's 

gloom, 

Another love hangs its tropic bloom ! 
But Marion Grey, from the old hearthstone, 
I hear the sound of a memory moan ; 
I feel the dash of a sorrow-wave 
I see the gloom of " a hidden grave;" 



216 MARION GREY. 

And look in a young face fonder than thine, 
And hang it over the desolate shrine, 
Of a heart that stifles its bitterest moan, 
O'er the writing that gleams from its cold grave 
stone. 

Ah Marion Grey, can I never forget 

That evert* the last that we ever met? 

Doth it haunt you too as it haunts me now, 

'Till the throbs beat wild o'er your burning brow? 

From the mystic realms of " that fairy land 

The shadowy Past," do you feel my hand ? 

Are your pulses quick with memory's flow, 

As you hear me whispering, calm and low ? 

Ah Marion Grey, you tell at last 

Your love, when the time to speak hath passed ; 

Hath passed with you and passed with me, 

For 1 am boiuid, and you are free. 

Yes, you were free, for your love was dead 

Before my bitter scorn, you said, 

And my poor life, with its setting sun, 

Was linked to a truer, braver one ; 

And turning then from the old lone way, 

I walked with another, Marion Grey. 

And now from the blight of Life's gay morn, 

Some purer hopes in my heart are born 

And my faith looks up with a smiling eye, 

To some Heaven-blooms that may never die. 



Cry of the Motherless, 



Mother, mother, through the shadows 

Of my earth-life canst thou see 
All the weary tears that quiver 

From the heart that moans for thee ! 
Seest thou the roses, mother, 

Broken in my life and dead ? 
Knowest thou how many glad hopes 

From my eager grasp hath fled ? 

Look among the angels, mother, 

Standing round the shining Throne ; 
See if any there, my mother, 

Weary lives on earth have known ; 
Bid them join their voices, mother, 

With the pleading of thy own, 
That I too may stand, my mother, 

Near the Great Eternal Throne ! 

Ah, the dreary darkness, mother, 
Presses nearer to my heart, 

15 



218 CKY OF THE MOTHERLESS. 

And from griefs I cannot smother, 
Burning tears unbidden start. 

Spring-time comes with bud and blossom 
Slowly o'er the distant plain 

Like a Future, full of promise, 
To a Present, full of pain ! 

Oh that Future, leaning downward 

With its golden, gleaming lights, 
Like a smiling angel bending 

From the gorgeous Eden-heights. 
Is the Future when, sweet mother, 

Those on earth will call me dead 
When the clover-buds will blossom 

O'er my peaceful coffin-bed ! 

When I'll see the lilies blowing 

On the glad Eternal shore, 
And I'll hear the river flowing 

Through the bloom for evermore ; 
Where no dim eyes will be watching 

Through a bitter tearful rain 
Where no lone heart will be crying 

To the winds its bitter pain. 

Then oh pity me, my mother, 
For the woe my life hath known, 

Plead that I may stand, my mother, 
Close beside thee near the Throne. ' 



CEY OP THE MOTHERLESS. 219 

Praises then my soul shall utter, 
Praises to the Great Most High 

Songs shall gush o'er lips that quiver 
Now, with bitter human cry. 



To My Namesake, 



Blue-eyed " Agnes Leonard," 
(Mother's name and mine,) 
Ties so sweet and tender 
Bind my heart to thine. 
Hopes, the sweetest, brightest, 
Cherished e'er shall be 
With the love that blossoms 
In my heart for thee. 

Prayers so fond and tender 
I will pray for thee, 
That thy life's fair valley 
Cloudless e'er may be. 
May no fond dreams, darling, 
Of thy heart's sweet bowers 
Droop all broken, blighted, 
Like some withered flowers. 

May Love ever crown thee 
Beautiful and bright. 



TO MY NAMESAKE. 221 

May no rude storm, Agnes, 
Aught thou lovest blight. 
May Hope's snowy pinions 
Guide through every gloom, 
May thy life smile gladly 
With its freight of bloom. 

May God keep thee, Agnes, 
When the storms are near 
May His hand, my darling, 
Stay each bitter tear. 
And, sweet Agnes Leonard, 
When the storms are o'er, 
May I meet thee, dearest, 
On " the other shore." 



Thy Friendship, 



[To Mrs. Vassie R. S , of Shelby Co., Ky.] 

The sweetest joy my life has known, 
The fairest, sunniest light 
That e'er was o'er my pathway thrown 
In Sorrow's darkest night, 

Is the pure friendship thou hast given, 
Oh best-loved gift to me, 
And sweet as twilight dreams of Heaven 
The gift will ever be. 

Like a pure sunbeam through the gloom 
Of life's bleak Whiter-morn, 
Or like the Spring-time's early bloom 
To trees that were forlorn. 

Like sparkling foam on ocean waves, 
Like starlight on the sea, 
Like blooming buds on forest-graves, 
Thy friendship is to me. 



THY FRIENDSHIP. 223 

And every memory-wind will thrill 
My heart with mournful bliss, 
And turn it from each Future ill 
To muse on hours like this. 

Oh weary years must come and go, 
Brief scenes of joy and glee, 
This heart may break beneath its woe, 
But ne'er unfaithful be. 



The Coquette's Wager, 



Fred Granville was twenty-eight years of age, 
wealthy, handsome and intellectual, (you perceive, 
reader, I mention the most important item first.) 
Do you wonder that he was a flirt? What was that 
you said ? Never knew an intellectual man a flirt? 
But I tell you he was a flirt. It's essential to my 
story that he should be a flirt ; so if you never 
knew one, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Fred 
Granville. Now that you've bowed and smiled, and 
expressed your happiness at making the acquaint 
ance of my hero, I'll proceed. 

It was a glorious day in the month of July the 
summer sunshine poured down on the earth as if 
cooking it ; nicely roasting it for the palate of some 
huge epicure. Pshaw ! I perceive I'm not describ 
ing the day sentimentally, as story-writers generally 
do. 

Well, you dear, imaginative reader, just conceive 
that it was a very romantic day, altogether as it 
should be that above-named Fred was engaged 
in that most laudable of all employments, smoking 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGEB. 225 

a cigar, and casting glances of unqualified admira 
tion at Ids elevated heels. 

" Ho, Fred, I've news for you." 

It was a cheering voice that announced the arriv 
al of Bob Reldon. 

" Ah !" exclaimed Fred, tossing his cigar out the 
window, and turning to listen. 

" Yes, sir, the celebrated coquette, Mabel Reeves, 
has laid a wager that she will bring you to her feet 
within six months from this date," said Bob, glee 
fully, rubbing his hands as he thought of the pleas 
ant excitement to arise from the wager. 

" What a very modest, estimate she must place 
upon her attractions !" said Fred, with a good- 
humored sarcasm. 

" There's no mistake about her being the most 
enchanting woman in New York," returned Bob, 
with enthusiasm. 

" Haven't a doubt that she possesses the beauty 
of Venus, the dignity of Juno, the wisdom of 
Minerva, and the modesty of well, whoever is god 
dess of that old-fashioned article that has grown 
valuable from its scarcity," said Fred, half bitterly. 

"Pshaw, Fred, you've flirted so much, that you're 
disgusted with the whole sex. Now do be generous 
and surrender graciously your fascinating self to 
Mis* Mabel," said Bob Reldon, playfully. 

" Perhaps I will," returned Fred, in the same 
spirit ; "but when does ma belle contemplate begin 
ning her attack upon your humble servant?" 



226 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 



" Oh, she won't begin with you for some little 
time yet She's going into the country, to spend a 
month or two with an aunt of her's, and win back 
roses to her cheeks from the breezy hills," explained 
Bob, with a mock sentimental air. 

" Better try to win back truth and modesty," re 
turned Fred. 

" Really, Fred, you're so sour and cynical that 
I'm inclined to think you must have made a mistake, 
and sweetened your coffee with vinegar instead of 
sugar I'll retire until you recover from its effects !" 
So saying, Bob Reldon departed. 

Fred smiled a proud, self-satisfied smile, glanced 
in the mirror, (you see, my friend, that article is not 
patronized by feminines exclusively ]) and then left 
for dinner. 

Very handsome, proudly irresistible, looked Fred 
Granville, as he walked in the glittering path of the 
sunbeams and yet, haughty, as he appeared, way 
down in his heart there was a yearning for some 
thing good and true. He had mingled with the 
fashionable butterflies that surrounded him but 
the uncontrollable longing in his soul would not 
allow him to unite himself for life to the painted, 
insipid creatures that lisped nonsense and "waltzed 
divinely." Fred had eaten his dinner, taken a little 
lazy stroll, and returned to his office to think of 
Mabel Reeves. 

" Fred, Fred, offer up a sacrifice to the gods for 
an idea that you'd pay me five hundred dollars for, 
if you had any conception how brilliant it is." 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 227 

It was Bob Reldon again, and his quick, ener 
getic tones roused Fred's curiosity to the highest 
pitch, and made him ask with animation, 

" What is it, Bob ? Out with it. Don't keep me 
waiting." 

" Ha, ha, it's too good !" gasped Bob, almost 
convulsed with laughter, as he pointed to an adver 
tisement in a daily paper that he held in his hand. 
Fred leaned anxiously forward and read that "Oak 
Hill Seminary wanted a teacher. Young man pre 
ferred." (The trustees of that school doubtless had 
marriageable daughters.) 

" I don't see anything remarkable about that," 
said Fred, coldly, as he gazed half contemptuously 
at his laughing friend. 

" Ha ! ha ! Fred, it's too good ! ha ! ha ! Mabel 
Reeves ha ! ha ! is going there ! ha ! ha ! Apply 
for the situation ! ha ! ha ! Outwit her ! ha ! ha ! 
ha!" 

" It's a glorious idea 1" said Fred, gazing at his 
friend in wondering admiration. " Stop your laugh- 
ing'and let's talk it over." 

And they did. For two hours they talked, mak 
ing arrangements for Fred to take the school at 
" Oak Hill Seminary" and outwit Mabel Reeves. 



" Good evening, madam." 

" Good evening, sir ; walk in and take a seat" 

It was a pleasant little cottage, and the vines 



228 THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 

crept over it, shielding it from the sunshine and 
bathing it in perfume. 'Twas very inviting, so 
Fred Granville thought, as he walked in and took a 
seat on a low, old-fashioned chair. 

" I s'pose you're our new teacher," said old Mrs. 
Mayfield, looking scrutinizingly at him. 

" Yes, madam," returned Fred, trying to look as 
teacherfied as possible. 

"What may your name be ?" queried the old lady. 

" Charles Brinkley, madam," answered Fred, 
blushing for the falsehood, while the truthful eyes of 
Mrs. Mayfield wandered over his face, noting the 
blush and setting it down as a " good sign, as it 
showed he warn't brazen." 

Monday morning dawned (a remarkable circum 
stance) and Mr. Charles Brinkley (alias Fred Gran 
ville) took " the teacher's chair," and prepared to do 
penance for his many sins of " omission and com 
mission." His terms were so extremely low that 
the house was crowded with children from six to 
twenty years of age. Half the day was spent, and 
Fred was eating cold peach pie, from his little din 
ner basket, and mentally contrasting " country and 
city life," when he heard one of the little girls say, 
" Ain't there a heap of scholars ?" to which her 
companion replied, " Yes, it's cause he don't charge 
much." 

Here was a new idea, and the next day a note 
was sent to each of the patrons, giving information 
that Mr. Charles Brinkley was obliged to raise his 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 229 

rates of tuition. This had the desired effect, and 
only a few of the " better class" remained. 

A week rolled away, and Fred was on the point 
of giving up in despair, when Mrs. Mayfield inform 
ed him that, "My niece, from New York, will be 
here to-morrow." 

Fred was too much agitated to converse that eve 
ning, and so he retired early, thinking of Mabel 
Reeves. 

The next day was Wednesday, and oh ! the long 
school duties seemed interminable. They were over 
at last, and Fred walked home a trifle faster than 
he usually walked in his Broadway strolls. Mabel 
Reeves had a tall, queenly form, and her face had a 
regal beauty that was enchanting. Fred Granville 
bowed to the introduction Mrs. Mayfield gave, and 
looked with a half-defiant admiration down in a pair 
of dark blue eyes, as a merry, musical voice pro 
nounced his name. 

" What a waste of beauty on so heartless a flirt !" 
mentally exclaimed Fred, as he took a proffered 
scat. Mabel Reeves was evidently studying him, 
for, ever and anon, quick, sharp glances shot out 
from under her dark lashes toward him. 

"Look till you're satisfied, queenly one! You 
mistake your man if you contemplate beholding 
Fred (iranvilk- kneeling at your feet," was Fred's 
mental exclamation. 



" Don't call me Bell, aunty, call me May, as mo 
ther used to." 



230 THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 

The tones were musically tremulous, and the 
moonlight laid a radiant crown on the regal brow 
of Mabel Reeves. 

" Perhaps she isn't quite heartless after all !" sol 
iloquized Fred, as, hidden by luxuriant vines, he 
could " observe unobserved." 

There was a silence of some moments, and then 
Mrs. Mayfield said, in a kind of tender, rebuking 
tone, " See here, child, Mr. Brinkley, is a nice, 
clever young man, and I don't want you to go to 
breakin' his heart, as I hear you've been in the 
habit of doing young men." 

Mabel gave a little confused laugh, aud said, 
" Breaking his heart ! Why, aunty, I've no such 
intentions !" 

" What do you mean by fixin' up in flowers and 
flounces of evenin's, then ?" queried Mrs. Mayfield. 

A blush flamed up over the face of Mabel Reeves, 
but she answered with forced gaiety, 

" Why, aunty, I didn't know it was any harm to 
try to look pretty." 

" No harm at all, if you have any idea of marry 
ing him." 

There was no reply to this ; and after some mo 
ments Mrs. Mayfield continued, 

" Mabel Reeves, answer me one question don't 
you consider yourself a long ways ahead of Charles 
Brinkley?" 

A husky, trembling voice answered, 

" Oh, aunty, he's so much better than I am !" 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 231 

A sob smote Fred's ear, and he blushed for his 
own unworthiness. 

A moment they lingered in silence, then went in, 
leaving Fred most hopelessly in love with Mabel 
Reeves. 

" I'll propose to her to-morrow evening," was 
Fred's mental exclamation as he went cautiously up 
to his room. 

"How she has been slandered! Heartless co 
quette, indeed ! She's as pure and truthful as sun 
light !" were some of Fred's comments as he closed 
his eyes in vain attempts to sleep. 

The morrow was a clear sunny morn in Septem 
ber, and Mabel Reeves sat singing gaily, fondly 
dreaming of Charles Brinkley. 

" I have at last found one true, faithful heart," 
she murmured ; and then her soul chanted a melody 
of gratitude to Heaven. 

The sunshine crept round on the porch, making 
it so warm and sunny that Mabel was obliged to 
leave it As she entered the cool, wide hall, she 
s.i\v u brown envelope, directed in a bold, mascu 
line hand-writing. Picking it up, she glanced at 
the superscription, and recognized the name of one 
of her New York admirers. Her curiosity was ex 
cited, and opening it, the first words that caught her 
eye were, Mabel Reeves. 

That decided the little struggle going on in her 
breast, between honor and inclination, and she 
yielded to the latter. Her cheeks flushed and paled 



232 THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 

as she read, and when she had finished, her eyes 
flashed indignantly as she exclaimed, 

" Oh, oh ! my bewitching Mr. Granville ! how 
much pleasure you must have anticipated in winning 
Mabel Reeves, and remaining unwon! A brilliant 
idea, truly !" 

A scornful curve was on her lip, and her cheeks 
burned with wounded pride ; and yet, reader, an 
hour later Mabel Reeves was sobbing bitterly in her 
room. It was her first love and with her to love 
once was to love forever ! 

Poor Mabel ! It was a day spent in utter desola 
tion of soul, and yet when evening drew near, her 
eyes flashed proudly, and a scornful smile sat on her 
beautiful lips. 

Very fascinating she appeared to Fred Granville, 
as she came in the misty twilight, and sat down 
where the honeysuckle blossoms drooped low and 
fragrant 

" Will you take a walk with me in the garden, 
Miss Mabel?" 

Fred asked the question in musical, tender tones, 
that twenty-four hours before would have sent a 
thrill of bliss to the heart of Mabel, as it was she 
merely bowed a cold assent 

Fred was too much agitated to notice her man 
ner, and the consequence was he carried out the in 
tention he had formed the night previous. 

.Mabel listened in silence to his declaration. Once 
she- was on the point of giving up, then she rernem- 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 233 

bered the letter that she clutched nervously, and 
asked in a tone meant to be sarcastic, but it was 
only tremulously anxious, 

"Are you certain that you really love me ?" 

"Love you? Oh May, darling, I cannot tell how 
I love you !" said Fred, passionately. 

With a mighty effort Mabel rose and said scorn- 
fully, 

" Then I think, Mr. Granville, I've won my wager, 
for if I remember rightly, the six months have not 
expired !" 

Fred sprang to his feet as if doubting the evi 
dence of his own senses ! In a few moments he 
recovered his self possession, and said, with a scorn 
that eclipsed hers, 

" If Miss Reeves values her triumph, she is wel 
come to it !" 

"Thank you!" replied Mabel, with mock hu 
mility. 

A moment they stood regarding each other with 
intense scorn, and then 'twas Fred that broke the 
silence. 

" Allow me to congratulate Miss Reeves on being 
so consummate an actress ! From the little scene 
I witnessed last night, I am inclined to think she 
might make a fortune on the stage." 

Mabel stared, bewildered, while Fred, as if to 
refresh her memory, began imitating her tones. 

" 'Don't call me Bell, aunty, call me May, as mo 
ther used to !' " 

" How dare you ?" almost screamed Mabel. 

16 



234 THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 

" It is strange how I should dare to spoil by a 
repetition so affecting a little speech. I don't sup 
pose, however, I should have dared to, but for 
another interesting remark '0A, aunty, he's so 
much better than lamP " answered Fred. 

Mabel stood a moment irresolute. 

"If I tell him I did not know he was there, he 
will know that I love him, so I cannot tell him," 
was her mental conclusion. 

Controlling her voice, she said, haughtily, 

" Mr. Granville does me much honor, to think my 
remarks worthy of repetition. Allow me to express 
my gratitude by returning a letter that I was so 
fortunate as to find." 

Mabel swept proudly toward the house, but when 
only the starlight saw her, bitter tears fell thick and 
fast. 

Pride, triumphant at the victory it had gained, 
laughed scornfully at the desolate heart throbs. The 
air seemed heavy, almost to suffocation, and Mabel 
walked out from the room into a wide hall, where 
the moonlight lay in broad shining bands. She 
seated herself by a low window, and the night 
winds soothed her, with a tender lullaby, until she 
fell asleep. 

But what of Fred? On reaching his room, he 
began, with some trepidation, to read the letter Ma 
bel had given him. I{ was one written the day 
after his first interview with her. 

" No wonder she hated me ?" he soliloquized ; 



THE COQUETTE'S WAGER. 235 

" but then she needn't have been so deceitful ?" he 
muttered savagely. 

" Wouldn't you have done so ?" queried an in 
visible questioner. 

Fred was forced to confess that he would. 

" But, then," muttered he, " that acting last night 
proves what a heartless actress she is to bring up 
a dead mother's name for such a purpose." 

Fred was disgusted ! In silent, bitter reverie, he 
sat until the old clock, striking twelve, roused him. 
A sudden memory swept over his brain, and he 
sprang to his feet, exclaiming impetuously, "By 
Jove, it wasn't acting after all 1" 

He remembered that he had read the letter over 
that very morning, arid intended to destroy it, so, of 
course, she couldn't have found it until after the lit 
tle scene of the night before. His feelings under 
went a complete change, and he murmured, 

"Mabel, darling, what a wretch I was!" 

It seemed as if the air was " in the plot," for it 
immediately began to stifle him in the same way it 
had done Mabel. So opening his door, he passed 
out into the broad hall that separated his room 
from Mabel's. He started as he saw the sleeping 
figure at the window, as he approached nearer, he 
saw tears resting on the pale face upturned in the 
moonlight ; and his heart smote him. 

" May, darling May," he whispered. 

She started, but did not seem to comprehend the 
scene, until Fred murmured, 



236 THE COQUETTE'S WAGEE. 

" Can you forgive me ? Will you love me, Mabel, 
darling Mabel ?" 

Reader, the writer of this entertaining sketch has 
no experience in such scenes as must necessarily 
have followed. Ergo, she'll jump at the conclusion, 
and end by giving you the astounding information 
that they were married. 



To "Grace Granville," 



As the eager morning lifts her pallid face 
To the crimson glory of the Sun's embrace, 
So my heart is lifting up her eager eyes 
Gazing on the splendor of her Being's skies ; 

Drinking in the glory that is newly-born 

To her Night-worn valleys, in thy loving's morn. 

Oh my Spirit-sister, darling unseen one, 

I am like a violet in an April sun, 

Lifting up its petals 'neath the forest-trees, 
Bending to the kisses of the passing breeze, 
Watching for the gladness of a stray sun-beam 
Living in the shadow of a golden dream, 

Waiting by the murmur of some woodland stream 
Shadowed, yet how happy with a joyous dream, 
Crowned with Hope's alluring, through the dark 
some night, 
Waiting calm and patient for the morning-light. 



238 TO "GRACE GBANVILLE. 

Now the morn in splendor leans unto the earth, 
And the blooms are joyous with the sunlight's birth, 
Oh that radiant morning, fresh and fair and sweet, 
Is thy fond affection that my heart doth greet 

With a song whose gladness falls forevermore 
Through the bloom that brightens all my Being's 

shore. 

Yet though I am living in thy love's embrace, 
Fain I'd look beloved in thy tender face. 

I am like a violet knowing that afar 
Leans the tender radiance of an evening star, 
Yet the cloud of distance hides the star from me, 
Part the dark cloud, Gracie, let me look on thee. 

JUNE 10th. 



Tenderly to my Sister, 



Through the darkness and the shadows 
Of some bitter, hopeless years, 
I can see your sweet face, sister, 
Shining on me through its tears ; 
Paling softly with the quiver 
Of that faintly said " Farewell," 
Like the moonlight on a river 
Sobbing in a lonesome delL 

In the crimson and the glory 
Of this joyous Summer morn, 
Memory tells again the story 
Of some glad hopes that were born, 
When your arms were round me, dearest, 
And your lips were on my cheek, 
And the thoughts, that lay the nearest 
To my heart, I could not speak. 

Strove I then to tell you, sister, 
That I knew you'd come again 



240 TENDERLY TO MY SISTER. 

When the Summer's daisies kissed her 

In the murmur of the rain. 

And I strove to check the falling 

Of your sad, prophetic tears, 

For the anguish that was calling 

From the Future's dreary years. 

And I told you Zwas seeing 
Only glad and golden hours 
In the Future swiftly fleeing 
Through the sunshine and the flowers. 
But you only held me nearer 
Whispering " Little sister sweet, 
May your life's sky be clearer, 
Scattering sunshine at your feet, 

Than your sister, in the bleakness 
Of this morning hopes to know ; 
May your heart be full of meekness 
Yet be strong for coming woe. 
And when the dark shadows, dearest, 
That your sister's heart can see, 
Blight the hopes that life holds nearest 
Still she'll ever pray for thee. 

Dost thou know, my little darling, 
Ere our mother went to sleep, 
That she gave unto me, dearest, 
Such a sacred " charge to keep," 



TENDERLY TO MY SISTER. 241 

When I bent my tearful lashes 
O'er her gentle, worshipped face, 
While I read its tender flashes 
Full of beauty and of grace ? 

Yes, the words were spoken softly 

By my mother as I kissed her, 

" When I'm dead, Virginia, darling, 

You must love your little sister." 

And I whispered, through the falling 

Of some tears I could not smother, 

As I fancied angels calling, 

" You may trust me, oh, my mother." 

Oh the years, my little sister, 
Have come slowly on apace 
And as when I sadly kissed her 
Now I see my mother's face. 
'Tis not cold and chill, my darling, 
In a dumb, relentless sleep, 
But 'tis fair as when, my sister, 
You were given me to keep. 

Till I hear The River flowing 
On the glad Eternal shore, 
And I see the lilies blowing 
Fair and fadeless evermore. 
Till I say, oh, darling mother, 
Wakened from your dreamless sleep, 



242 TENDERLY TO MY SISTER. 

I have no griefs now to smother, 
I have no tears now to weep. 

I have kept the charge, my mother, 
Sweetest that I e'er have known, 
I have loved her, as you bade me, 
All the long years that have flown, 
And I bring my " little sister" 
To the shining jasper walls, 
Pure as that last time you kissed her, 
Listening to the angels' calls. 



I must leave you now, my dearest, 
May the angels guard you well, 
To your heart may God be nearest, 
Kiss me, little one, Farewell!" 
* # * * i 

O'er the pallor, sister Jennie, 
Of your face fell burning tears, 
From the dark prophetic vision 
Fancy wove of coming years. 

In the crimspn and the glory 
Of those glad evanished years 
Wondered I to hear the story 
Of thy bosom's haunting fears, 
And I said sweet sister, dearest, 
Life shall teach thee better things, 



TENDERLY TO MY SISTER. 243 

Joy shall show thee all thou fearest 
From thy own sad Fancy springs. 

Thus I whispered, darling sister, 
In that morning's rosy glow. 
Dreamed I not thy Fancy truly 
Painted all the Future's woe. 
Yet, my sister, though the shadows 
O'er our lives are dark and long, 
We'll forget their blackness, darling, 
In the starry, angel-throng. 



Impromptu, 



[Written at the age of thirteen.] 

" The earth is very bright, mother, 
The flowers are very fair," 
The Summer-birds are on the wing 
And blossoms scent the air. 

But what are birds and flowers to me, 
And all earth's brightest things ? 
Naught that I may not share with thee 
Joy to my spirit brings. 

I had a dream last night, mother, 
A dream most sweetly strange, 
I thought thou hadst come back to us 
Thy home no more to change. 

Oh how my heart with rapture filled, 
My pulse with joy beat high, 
But, oh, I found 'twas but a dream, 
My joy was doomed to die. 



IMPROMPTU. 245 

I'm very lonely, mother dear, 
Without thy cheering power, 
Sometimes I think thy spirit's near 
To cheer each lonely hour. 




Twilight Musings, 



In the silence and the shadow 

Of this mystic twilight hour, 
There are thoughts that haunt me strangely, 

With their deep, unspoken power ; 
And I lean across the mem'ries, 

Bridging 'tween my heart and thine, 
Gazing on the hopes that, buried, 

In my life no longer shine. 

And the moon so fair and tender, 

In her radiant vestal light, 
And the stars that break in splendor 

On the azure shores of night, 
Seem only gleams of madness 

From a broken, tortured heart, 
With its buried dreams of gladness, 

From the cruel world apart. 

Ah, the past comes up before me, 
Like a friend from distant lands, 



TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 247 

And I strive to hold the pressure 
Of her shadowy worshipped hands. 

I strive to breathe the perfume 
That once floated through her bloom, 

But I only read the writing 
Fate has graven o'er her tomb. 

I only see the gravestones 

Of the hopes I've " loved and lost," 
With the dead blooms falling o'er them 

In a cruel, blighting frost. 
And the mem'ries gather o'er me, 

Like the flakes of winter snow, 
Till the past that comes before me, 

Makes the present half a woe. 

Yet I know the future leaneth 

From her regal home afar, 
Like a tender smile that beameth 

From the evening's fairest star, 
And I'll not untomb the buried 

Past we loved long ago, 
To read again the splendor 

That but faded into woe. 

As the days that May-time bringeth, 
Crowned with beauty and with light. 

Only drop their regal glory 
In the bosom of the night, 



248 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 

Yet the day-dawn shineth fairer 
When the darksome night is o'er, 

So the light will break out clearer 
On the glad Eternal shore. 

When the storms of earth are over, 

And the Heavenly land is won, 
And the moaning and the torture 

Of this weary life are done : 
Then the cross that makes us wander, 

Drooping weary foreheads down, 
Will be taken from us, Marcus, 

For a starry angel-crown. 



In Memory of Annie E, Pryor, 



Oh pure white blossom fallen asleep, 

Oh shadowed eyes that will nevermore weep, 

Oh forehead free from the lines of care, 

Oh folded tresses of silken hair ! 

I see them weep o'er thy coffin-bed, 

I hear them whisper t/iou art dead. 

Yet my Faith looks up to golden lights 
That flash fro.m the gorgeous Eden-heights, 
And I know where the silver fountains play 
Through the fadeless bloom of an endless day, 
Where the angels walk in a star-gemmed throng 
And the breezes murmur a Heavenly song, 

And the azure lights through the rainbows gleam, 
And the woe of earth is a shadowy dream, 
Where hopes are never "loved and lost," 
Nor rare blooms die in Winter-frost, 
Where all is pure and bright and fair, 
I* know, sweet angel, thoit art there. 

17 



250 IN MEMORY OP ANNIE E. PKYOB. 

I know that the moans of the wind and the rain, 
With their mystic tales of a hidden pain, 
Can bring no thought to thy gentle breast 
To break thy calm, unbreathing rest. 
I know the years may come and go, 
Yet bring thee never a shadow of woe. 

Then can I weep o'er thy gentle face, 
Though the hearthstone holds a vacant place ? 
Can I weep that Heaven holds one more song, 
That another walks in the angel-throng ? 
That a soul is redeemed from earthly woe 
Though a sweet face lieth solemn and low ? 

I only bend o'er thy coffin-bed 

And long for the rest of thy fair young head ; 

I only gaze on thy pallid cheek 

And the gentle lips that may nevermore speak, 

And think of an angel pure and bright, 

That walks in the smiles of Eternal light. 



To Nettie Scott, 

[Of Frankfort, Ky.] 

Nettie Scott, thy baby-beauty 
Haunts me like a pleasant dream, 
Woven when the May-blooms open 
'Neath the moonlight's shadowy gleam, 
O'er thy eyes so brown and dove-like 
Droop thy lids with timid grace, 
While a smile of tender gladness 
Lies like sunlight o'er thy face. 

Fairest blooms that deck the valleys 
Find a rival in thy brow, 
Naught that buds nor naught that blossoms 
Is so sweet and pure as thou. 
Like a joyous streamlet singing 
Through a bed of tropic-flowers 
Flows thy life unto the music 
Of thy Being's happy hours. 

May God lead thee, baby Nettie, 
Through the paths thy feet must tread, 



252 TO NETTIK SCOTT. 

May He grant that sunlight ever 

Linger round thy beauteous head, 

And may all thy earthly valleys 

Lead unto the Heaven-world 

Where the glad Redeemed will greet thee 

With their radiant wings unfurled. 



Shadowed, 



" Though I am yours it is my curse 
Some ideal passion to rehearse." 

I love thee, yet a shadow hangs 

About my heart and brain 
A shadow like an evening cloud 

Above an Autumn rain. 
I love thee, yet a tear-drop starts, 

To fall like molten lead ; 
I love thee, yet my heart bows down 

O'er ashes of the dead. 

I love thee, yet the Past comes back, 

A ghostly, shadowy thing, 
Until I feel that earth can ne'er 

A fairer vision bring. 
I love thee, yet the gravestones gleam 

Along the cruel dark, 
And all the blighted blooms of life 

Some vanished pleasures mark. 



254 SHADOWED. 

I love thee, yet ray heart doth hold 

Some rooms thou hast not seen, 
And never mortal hands, though bold, 

Shall try the doors I ween. 
I see thy glorious, flashing eye, 

I hear thy murmured tone, 
I breathe for thee the tender sigh 

And vow I am thy own. 

And yet a cloud is o'er my heart, 

A shadow o'er my brain, 
I feel a burning tear-drop start, 

I hear a cry of pain. 
I try to feel that I am thine, 

I con thy burning words, 
And yet my heart's an empty shrine 

Where broken-pinioned birds 
Flit in and out and breathe no song 

Nor taste no breath of bloom, 
But feel the weary days are long 

Above the waste of gloom. 

I see thy glorious, flashing eye, 

I read thy generous heart, 
I hear thy tender, yearning sigh 

As cherished memories start. 
And yet, as 'neath an Autumn sky, 

Some lone bird sighs for Spring, 
When broken wings refuse to fly 

And life's a weary thing. 



SHADOWED. 255 

My heart beats restless pinions o'er 

The pale Past's shadowed grave, 
And seeks to fly for evermore 

Where orange-blossoms wave ; 
Where tropic blooms their perfume breathe 

And silver fountains gleam, 
And clinging vines there verdure wreathe 

About the poet-dream 

The poet-dream ! Ah ! yes, a dream, 

I thought the bloom thy heart, 
I seemed to see the shining gleam 

Where silver fountains start ; 
I seemed to feel the. tropic bloom 

That e'er from loving springs, 
I half forgot the shadowy gloom 

My own sad memory brings. 



I strive to feel thy arms around 

The graves that shadows woo, 
I strive to feel my life is bound 

With love and beauty too ; 
And yet I only feel the gloom 

That shrouds a broken heart 
I only feel some blighted bloom 

Whence burning tear-drops start ! 

NEWCASTLE, KY. 



In my Dream I got a Letter. 



In my dream I got a letter, 

Eagerly I broke the seal, 
Wondering if its contents, Marion, 

Would thy love or hate reveal ! 
Tenderly I bent above it, 

Trembling half with love and fear, 
And my heart amid its waiting, 

Dropped a little quivering tear ! 

Then I looked upon the writing, 

Writing that I knew too well, 
Such as came unto me, Marion, 

Breathing out thy last farewell ! 
In the dream-land still I lingered, 

Longing, daring not to read, 
While my heart, with mournful cadence, 

Of its love began to plead. 

Then I read, while my heart wakened 
To a newer, richer life, 



IN MY DREAM I GOT A LETTER. 257 

For 'twas written can I tell it ? 

Yes, 'twas written " be my wife f" 
'Mid the misty light of dream-land, 

How I read each fond word o'er, 
Conning then another lesson 

Of .love's witching wel-llearned lore! 

Folded I the letter softly, 

Laid it 'gainst my beating heart, 
Wondering why, when one is happy, 

Tears will oft unbidden start. 

From the happy dream they woke me, 

Caring not what bliss they broke, 
Thinking not I'd sigh and murmur. 

Would that I had never woke ! 

There's a gulf between us, Marion, 

Oh, 'tis darkly broad and deep, 
But my love can bridge it over, 

When I'm with thee in my sleep. 
In my dream I got a letter, 

Eagerly I broke the seal ; 
I was very happy, Marion, 

That it did thy love reveal ! 



To Madison, 



Twice thy words have stirred the slumbers 

Of the waters in my soul, 
And my pen, in poet-numbers, 

Struggles with a poor control 
To express the tide of feeling 

Rushing through my heart and brain, 
While my spirit-tears are stealing 

Softly as an evening rain. 

By the wild and crushing sorrow 

Sorrow that we each have known 
By the bliss we sought to borrow 

In the hopes that now have flown ; 
Cast aside thy mystic veiling 

Let me look into thy eyes 
Let my soul read all the wailing 

Of thy Being's anguished cries. 



Life is short, yet life is dreary, 
Hopes and sorrows come and go ; 



TO MADISON. 259 

Human hearts with pain are weary 

O'er the cherished lying low. 
Though the violets bud and blossom 

O'er thy buried idol's grave 
Though wild mern'ries through thy bosom, 

Like some bitter storm-winds rave, 

Yet, look up and thank the Father 

That the loved one lieth low ; 
That the blooms above thy darling 

All their gladness love to blow. 
Thank Him that no tears are stealing 

Down the paleness of her cheek ; 
That no tide of anguished feeling 

Breaks in moans she cannot speak. 

Soon the waiting will be over 

Wherefore, wherefore dost thou weep ? 
Such a host of angels hover 

O'er thy darling's dreamless sleep. 
Lift thy heart above the beating 

Tempests of thy earth-life born ; 
Gird thy soul for that glad meeting 

In the fair eternal morn. 

NEWCASTLE, KT. 



"Break! Break! Break!" 



" Break, break, break !" 

Oh, desolate memory waves, 
Ache, ache, ache ! 

Mad heart, o'er thy " hidden graves." 
Oh, well for the twittering birds 

That sing in the locust trees ; 
Nor weep over meaningless words ; 

But list to the loving breeze ! 
And the dreary hours go by, 

Like a corpse to Eternity's sea; 
But earth, nor sea, nor sky, 

Hath a glance of love for me ! 

Oh, desolate woe called " Life," 
Oh, pitiful throbbing brain ; 

Oh, dreary, unending strife, 
Oh, wearying moans of pain ; 

Oh, hopes ! I have " loved and lost," 
Oh, sepulchre very far down ; 

Oh, triumphs of terrible cost ! 
f When I wear the " golden crown," 



" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK." 261 

Will your wearying, wearying woe, 
Drift out from my heart and brain ? 

Will the Heavenly waters flow 

With a melody drowning my pain ? 



To the Memory of Jessie, 

Daughter of D. L. and Martha R. Shouse, wbo died in Kansas City, Mo. 
June 22nd, 1868. 



On the Summer's wasted forehead 

Hangs a wreath of faded bloom, 
And the winds that sweep the grasses 

Breathe a wailing note of gloom ; 
Seem to whisper of the fairest 

Bud that left the Summer-time 
Left the storm wind and the shadow, 

For the glorious Heaven clime. 

Little Jessie ! angel Jessie, 

O'er thy narrow coffin bed, 
Hopes the fondest, hopes the fairest, 

From lone hearts forever fled. 
Yet, oh ! darling, when the song-birds 

Leave us in the Summer-time, 
Wing their way where no stern Autumn 

Breaks upon a fairer clime, 

Do we grieve that they have vanished 
Ere the Storm King hushed their song? 



TO THE MEMORY OP JESSIE. 263 



Though we miss their radiant plumage, 
Though we for their presence long ; * 

Dream we not of that glad country 
Where the orange blossoms wave, 

Where no wild and wailing tempests 
Ever in their madness rave ? 

Muse we not how glad and joyous 

All their hearts in song they'll pour, 
Listening to the tropic breezes, 

While we hear our storm winds roar ? 
And though Winter comes to meet us 

Mute and cold with pallid brow, 
Like the ghost of some proud anguish, 

Like a mad, unspoken vow ; 

Yet we would not call the song-birds, 

From their land of blossoms sweet, 
To our cold and cheerless valleys, 

Where the storm and shadow meet, 
So, oh JESSIE, little darling, 

Singing with the angel-band, 
Stay thou in that happy country, 

In the joyous He,aven land. 

SIMPSONVILLE, KY., July 3, 1863. 



Away with the Traitor Flag ! 



[Dedicated to Lieutenant T. C. Grey.] 



AIR " Bonnie Blit Flag," 

" We are a band of brothers," in hardship, joy or 

toil, 

Fighting for our Liberty on old Kentucky's soil, 
For now our Union's threatened by rebels near and 

far, 
Who fight beneath the traitor flag that bears a 

single star, 

CHORUS Hurrah hurrah, for equal rights, hurrah. 
Away with that selfish flag that bears a single star. 

Let rabid South Carolina rashly take her stand, 
But soon she'll find that all her hopes are only built 

on sand. 

Davis, base usurper, and 'Stephens, traitor-knave, 
Will only plot to fill at last a lone, dishonored grave. 

CHORUS Hurrah, etc. 

Let Mississippi, Texas, Georgia and Florida, 
All raise on high their traitor flag " that bears a 
single star ;" 



AWAY WITH THE TRAITOR FLAG. 265 

But " men of valor gather round the banner of the 

right," 
Kentucky and Indiana foremost in the fight ! 

CHORUS Hurrah, etc. 

And though Kentucky's sister, " the old Dominion 

State," ' 
"With rebel-bands, by traitor-hands, was forced to 

link her fate, 
Yet gallant patriots bold and true will come from 

near and far 
To save her from the tyrant-flag " that bears a 

single star." 

CHORUS Hurrah, etc. 

Then let us cheer our Union-boys, strong are they 

and brave, 
Not "property" but Liberty, true patriots fight 

to save. 
And rather than the brave old flag should lose A 

single star, 
Beneath the folds of the " stars and stripes" they'd 

die from home afar. 

CHORUS Hurrah, etc. 



18 



The Blind Minister's Love, 



CHAPTER I. 

" The setting of a great hope is like the setting 
of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. 
Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world 
seems but a dim reflection, itself a broader shadow. 
We look forward into the coming lonely night. 
The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise 
and the night is holy." 

Romantic, careless glances would have pro 
nounced Melicent Talbot almost hideous. Her 
face was not one that " had a story to tell," but her 
heart, oh, it could have told a story. Its wild 
yearnings the setting of its great hope the rising 
of its holy stars in the solemn night-time of its 
black desolation, could have been woven into a 
story whose sublime eloquence would have touched 
your heart like the sudden gushing of a dead mo 
ther's half forgotten song. Shall I tell it? Meli 
cent Talbot's life-history? I will try, even while 
conscious that though my heart is wild with its 



THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 267 

impassioned grandeur, I have no strong-pinioned 
words to bear the full force of the story unto you. 
No delicate dainty wing pure enough to waft its 
exquisite loveliness unto your soul, and stir up the 
great deeps of your nature. But oh, if you could 
feel the story as I do, 'twould need no intricate 
plot to make it'interesting. I have told you God 
did not make her beautiful. Melicent Talbot ! 
Melicent Talbot ! my heart is full of pitying tears 
as I write it, for oh ! woman ! woman ! (alas that it 
should be so !) when " Our Father" denies you a 
winning face what matters it if your yearning heart 
break with its unspoken longings for love and sym 
pathy ? I need not tell how the mother laid that 
face in its cradle bed and whispered through plead 
ing tears, "My baby, if God would let you die, 
then you would be an angel, beautiful, my darling, 
so beautiful !" 

But while many a radiant vision of infant loveli 
ness, lay cold and still 'neath anguished mother- 
kisses, Melicent Talbot, the baby whose face was 
never brightened by triumph-glances of tender 
pride, did not die. 

From babyhood to childhood, from childhood to 
womanhood her life climbed up. Caressing words 
and loving tones seemed ever seeking, with the 
forbearance of an unspoken compassion, to make 
her forget she was not beautiful. She did forget 
it. Love had ever come to her like the sunshine, 
unsought and unappreciated. With wealth and 



268 THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 

home and friends, what knew she of seeking for 
love? 'Twas given she enjoyed it, asking no 
questions whence or wherefore it came. And so 
the years passed on with caressing fingers until she 
met Oscar Reeves. What of him did you ask ? 

She loved him ! Reader, if you are a woman 
you understand that sentence ! 'Tis an epitome of 
what my pen has no power to write. He was not 
very tall he was not particularly handsome ; in 
deed, I do not remember a single feature you would 
have loved to dream about, save his eyes. If you 
have, like me, a passion for dark eyes, those eyes 
would have haunted you. I don't know why either. 
The world is full of dark, bright eyes; and yet 
these were peculiar. Perhaps you may have met 
such a pair of eyes; if so, you know how they 
haunted you floating magically up through yoiir 
day dreams, brightening your night visions, and 
haunting you persistently. Though you didn't love 
them, there was a kind of fascination about them 
indescribable, irresistible, and, Melicent Talbot, it 
was those eyes that made you forget that your face 
had no winning feature, no heavenly expression 
nothing to win the love of such a man as Oscar 
Reeves. 

'Twas one of those balmy Winter evenings, such 
as occasionally come, a sweet prophecy of the 
Spring-time, that Melicent Talbot sat waiting for 
Oscar Reeves. Waiting ! perhaps to you 'tis sit 
ting with idle fingers and busy fancies with mem- 



THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 269 

ories whose mournful music wails along the shadow 
ed uplands, of your heart like a woman's cry of 
pain. This, perchance, is " waiting" to you. With 
her 'twas now patting her foot in joyous eagerness 
on the soft hearth-rug now running her fingers in 
glad anticipation, over the piano keys, striking ten 
derly his favorite song, and now pressing her face 
up close to the window pane, waiting, oh ! how 
eagerly, for Oscar Reeves. 

He came, and drawing a chair up close to hers, 
made a few hurried commonplace remarks, as if 
the deep undercurrent of his soul were panting for 
utterance struggling for expression, yet finding no 
avenue for the mighty torrent. He had confidence 
in her judgment, and believed her to be his friend. 
She knew his disposition, and as a brother would 
he ask it. Did she think he could be happier in 
fond endearments of home and affection, than lis 
tening to the pealing notes of fame and reveling in 
the mad intoxication of a world's approval ? These 
were not exactly his words, but these were the 
'questions he asked. Oh, Melicent Talbot, 'twas 
well your quivering heart's quick throbs were so 
" deeply buried from human eyes." And yet one 
less absorbed than Oscar Reeves in the import of 
your words could have read in your face a volume. 

" I do not know your disposition, perhaps, so 
well as you imagine," she began ; " but as for my 
self the approving tone of one loved voice would 
be dearer music than the applause of a million 



270 THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 

worlds beside. Fame ! oh, 'tis a glittering coronet 
with which to deck the brow ; but, when the heart 
wears no radiant crown of affection, Fame has no 
power to light the darkness of its black abyss." 

She spoke earnestly, and when Oscar Reeves 
said musingly, " "Pis true ! you have decided the 
struggle in my heart," a happy splendor illumined 
her face, for her soul was dreaming wildly of love 
and Oscar Reeves. Alas, alas, for thee, poor Me- 
licent Talbot ! An unseen angel wept pitying tears 
when Oscar's answer came : " I have long admired, 
nay, adored Miss Katie Benton, but ambition has 
held in its iron grasp the unspoken words of ten 
derness that might have won her. You are my 
friend. I speak freely. Wish me joy and success 
in my suit !" 

He spoke almost tenderly toward the last, yet 
with a faint attempt at playfulness, as if to hide a 
deeper feeling. 

And Melicent Talbot ? She did not faint no, 
oh ! no but the setting sun of her life's great hope 
sank behind the mist-veiled mountains in her soul. 
The gushing fountains of love and joy in her heart 
were frozen by the bleak winds of despair, and 
'neath those chilling blasts hope blossoms dropped 
their glowing petals and withered in the gathering 
darkness that veiled her soul as with a cloud. 

He was gone ; she remembered not one word that 
he had said, save that he loved another! What 
need had she to remember aught else, when that 



THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 271 

stern, solemn woe wailed up from the deep, black 
abyss Fate had sunken in her heart ? And now, 
through the darkness and desolation there fell a 
rain of tears, wild, bitter, and tempestuous. How 
long and dreary seemed the coming lonely night of 
life ! Yet 'tis in. such an hour as this that Our Fa 
ther lends a pitying ear, and when the impassioned 
cry for "Mercy," that Melicent Talbot sent up, 
reached Heaven's high court, an angel went down 
into the deep valleys of her soul, and said unto the 
tempest, " Peace be still," and there " arose a great 
calm," while out in the midnight blackness of her 
Being's sky there shot some pure, bright stars of 
Faith and Resignation. Then, indeed, was the 
night holy! 



CHAPTER II. 

" Melicent Talbot, put your hand in mine, and 
say that yow, at least, are my friend? Say, that 
now I am blind and dependent, and forsaken, you 
are still the gentle sister I have always known ?" 

There are some emotions too pure and self-sacri 
ficing for words. Melicent Talbot's were, and so 
for answer she only bowed her head and left her 
heart's tenderest tears iipon the hand of Oscar 
Reeves. 

He felt how much more eloquent than speech 
they were, and so he whispered, 



272 THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 

"God bless you, Melicerit Talbot! God bless 
you !" 

Ah ! Fame had been a glittering dream, Am 
bition a goading fiend ! 

He had won the affection, if so great a misnomer 
can be tolerated, of Kate Benton, and they were 
betrothed ; but he had put from him for a season 
the sweet love-dream, that he might win a name 
that she'd be proud to share. 

" Man proposes, but God disposes !" His phy 
sicians said, " Keeping late hours, straining his eyes 
too severely, added to neglect, had made Oscar 
Reeves blind." 

And so as the sunlight of Heaven was shut out 
from the darkened splendor of his once glorious 
eyes ; the sunlight of hope that had shown unto his 
soul's yearning gaze, wealth and fame, and all earth's 
joys, died out from his heart ; and she, who had 
promised, in the solemn hour of their betrothal, to 
walk with him all the days of her life turned from 
him in the hour of his greatest need. Oh, woman ! 
'Tis well thy sex has some redeeming ones, when 
thou dost so sin against thyself and God ! Yes, 
the physicians said, 'twas " imprudence" that made 
Oscar Reeves blind. The angels knew better ! They 
knew 'twas God's chastening sent to cleanse that 
proud, ambitious heart, and make it worthy of the 
great mercy that was to come veiled in the cloud of 
this great darkness. Oscar Reeves could see no 
mercy in it ! Why should God thus afflict him ? he 
asked, rebelliously. 



THE BLIND MINISTER'S LOVE. 273 

He had chosen the ministry as his profession ; 
and henceforth the residence of Mr. Talbot was to 
be his home. 

'Twas there with Melicent Talbot that Oscar 
Reeves learned the sweet lesson which she had 
learned so long ago resignation to God's will and 
an abiding faith in God's mercy ! 

Oh, they were pleasant days, spent in earnest, 
quiet conversation, in long, refreshing walks, and 
sometimes in prayer. Yes, she read from divine 
inspiration unto him, and they prayed together. 
And so, Melicent Talbot, for every heart-felt prayer 
or solemn song of praise your lips e'er uttered, for 
every hour of patient waiting, or gentle whispering 
of Divine love, your reward came. It seems too 
holy to write of ; too sacred, reader, to place before 
your careless eyes ; too pure for my pen to write of 
that hour, which to this day, Melicent Talbot, is 
your memory's brightest gem, the hour in which 
Oscar Reeves said unto you, " Melicent Talbot, my 
love for you has been the sweetest joy my life has 
ever known. Will you be my wife, darling ?" 

I cannot write of this. I do not feel worthy to 
write of that love, that pure abiding affection, not 
born of passion, but whose clinging tendrils an 
angel planted in the hearts of Melicent Talbot and 
Oscar Reeves, and whose history an angel pen has 
traced in characters of living light on the Eternal 
pages. 



In Memoriam, 



" Here hands are cold ; her face is white ; 
No more her pulses come and go ; 

Her eyes are shut to life and light ; 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow." 

Oh the violets in the woodland spring up fresh and 

fair and sweet, 
With a graceful, airy motion like the bound of 

youthful feet ; 
And I hear the South wind blowing o'er the grave 

of Winter's gloom, 
Like a pleasant river flowing through a bed of 

tropic bloom. 
And the sunshine on the hill-tops in a long and 

golden gleam, 

Reaches down into the valley like a gorgeous poet- 
dream 
Reaching o'er a heart to brighten all its silence and 

its gloom 



IN MEMOKIAM. 275 

With the sweet poetic fragrance of a radiant fancy 

bloom ; 
Reaching like a dream of Heaven o'er the wrung 

heart's troubled wave, 
When it moans and breaks in madness o'er a buried 

idoVs grave; 
Telling of the buds that blossom on that radiant 

o 

Eden-shore, 
Smiling ever on the faces that we see on earth no 

more. 
And the hands that used to linger in the pressure 

of our own, 
Cull the blooms that are more fragrant than any we 

have known, 
And the lips that used to thrill us with a matchless, 

nameless bliss, 
Press their dewy, fragrant blooming in a grateful 

angel kiss, 
On the brows, perchance, of "loved ones" who 

went from us long ago, 
When we listened to the breezes through a buried 

spring-time blow. 



Oh sweet face, still and solemn in thy " calm un- 

breathing sleep," 
May the Angels o'er the casket loving vigils ever 

keep ; 
Though the soul now walks in gladness on the 

starry shores of light, 



276 IN MEMOEIAM. 

Knowing naught of human sadness, wailing in a 

loveless night ; 
And when " the storms are over," and we reach 

the golden shore, 
In thy gentle arms, sweet angel, hold the loved for- 

evermore. 

NEWCASTLE, KY. 



A Birthday Tribute, 

TO MY BROTHER. 



Such a glowing, radiant splendor flashes from the 

morning sky, 
Like the lights so true and tender that are beaming 

from thine eye ; 
Oh, my only darling brother Oh, my mother's 

cherished one, 
Half my love I try to smother, that my words in 

rhyme may run ! 

But the eager tears are gushing o'er the flushing of 

my cheek, 
And the tender thoughts are rushing into song I 

may not speak 
Into song that rushes gladly from my full and 

grateful heart 
Into heart-hymns, telling softly what a priceless 

boon thou art. 

Oh, thou earnest in the blisses of the May-time 

fresh and sweet, 
When the winds, with loving kisses, all the violets 

seem to greet ; 



278 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

And they say a rarer splendor decked the radiant 

earth and sky, 
And the sunlight grew more tender, as if searching 

for thine eye, 
When they bent above thee, brother, smiling on thy 

natal morn, 
And they said unto my father, " Unto thee a son is 

born." 

And I've heard that tears were misty in my 

father's grateful eyes 
As he turned them towards the city lying "just 

beyond" the skies; 
And because he prayed, my brother, Heaven's 

blessing on his boy, 
Thy young life, oh, Allan Leonard, e'er has been 

that father's joy. 

And about thy sister's pathway, when the glooms 

were long and wide, 
And " the billows of existence" rolled a dark and 

bitter tide, 
Thou wert ever like the dawning of a sunbeam 

pure and bright 
Thou wert ever like the morning chasing off th'e 

shadowed night. 

E'en the tears, oh, darling brother, that I shed from 
thee apart, 

When thy love shineth through them, make a rain 
bow in my heart; 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 279 

What are weak words, oh, ray brother, when my 

heart they cannot speak 
When my soul is gushing upward in the teardrops 

on my cheek ? 

May God bless thee, oh, my brother, breathes my 
heart with tenderest cry 

May God keep thee, oh, my brother, when tempta 
tions hover nigh ; 

May " Our Father's" loving guidance make thy 
earth-life purely blest, 

And at last, oh, may He lead thee to eternal peace 
and rest ! 

NEWCASTLE, KY. 



My Congenial, 



CHAPTER I. 

I had been long possessed of a conviction, that 
somewhere on this " mundane sphere," there existed 
a being so perfectly congenial as to be indeed my 
" twin-spirit," 'Tis true the feeling was vague and 
undefined. An intuition not induced by any other 
outward circumstances than that few persons ever 
assented to, much less re-echoed my ideas of love, 
friendship, hatred, suicide, misery, and matrimony, 
(the last two being synonymous). And I could not 
believe that I was the only person who felt these 
things, and was sufficiently candid to express them, 
ergo my " soul-mate" must exist. 

The length of time that I Availed for this being 
to appear, seemed to me a half-grown eternity. 
Anxiously I scanned the faces of my new acquaint 
ances, pouring out into their afflicted ears my " sen 
timents," " observations," " expressions," medita 
tions," etc., concerning my favorite subjects. In 
vain ! Their skulls were as thick as the rebel forti 
fications, and like " those," evacuated ! To think I 



MY CONGENIAL. 281 

had " brought out my artillery" of glances, smiles, 
etc., marshalled my ideas with McClellan precision 
fatigued myself inexpressibly by my "double- 
quick" style of talking to find " no fight after all," 
no argument, nothing but a skull fort evacuated ! 
The quiet assent, the "unconditional surrender," 
was almost too much for my "poor nerves." But I 
was not discouraged not I ! The organ of hope 
was "then as now," much too large for "such a 
proceeding." Nil desperandum ! I exclaimed, d la 
newly fledged college-boy. 

I agreed with Thackeray, that there was "always 
a man for the occasion." That as "when it became 
--ary for Johnny Bull to be kicked out of 
America, Mr. Washington stepped forward and 
performed his duty." And as when it became 
necessary for The Book of Snobs to be written, Mr. 
Thackeray was created for that express purpose. 
So I could not but believe that when existence be 
came an intolerable bore, because of its great need, 
that the being, the "twin-spirit," " soul-mate," the 
Congenial, whom you have in a previous paragraph 
(as a young lady is reported to have said of Niagara 
Falls) "heard highly ttpoken of" by me, would cer 
tainly make his appearance to annihilate ennui, and 
confiscate the otherwise slow, dragging hours of 
my unappreciated existence. They tell us that 
" hope deterred maketh the heart sick/' I felt the in 
fluence of the malady, and yet my cheeks remained 
as unromantically red as ever, and if I did look 

19 



282 MY CONGENIAL. 

lackadasical "at times," I could not perceive a par 
ticle of difference in "the weather" on that account. 
My " friends" (hope you notice the quotation marks, 
and don't imagine I'm so verdant as to believe the 
word anything but an unmitigated humbug!) sup 
posed I was "in love." It certainly wasn't with 
them, I amiably informed them. This announce 
ment, however, that indignation gave gratis, pro 
duced no other effect upon the wretches than a 
smile of stupidity, of course ! Do you imagine 
they could experience any other emotions than that 
and curiosity f 

Some writers " have a way" of dashing into the 
most interesting part first, and then after they've 
victimized a poor reader into giving his attention, 
and snared his unsuspecting innocence into getting 
interested, they lead him backward, and tell him 
what ought to have been told "in the beginning," 
I hope no one will accuse me of this most unpar 
donable offence ! Have you read this far patiently, 
oh much abused, and perhaps after all, imaginary 
reader ? If so, I will reward your largely developed 
"continuity" by proceeding, i. e. will, d la Widow 
Bedott, " continer" 

My Congenial proved to be a postmaster/ (ye 
Gods and Union soldiers ! I've been more particu 
lar about the superscription of my envelopes ever 
since !) I wanted a letter mailed away from home, 
and so concluded to enclose it to the postmaster at 
Setting Moon Station. Of course, I hadn't the 



MY CONGENIAL. 283 

most remote i<lc:i what kind of a specimen of the 
genus homo he was ! Was magnanimous, however, 
and told him I didn't care. Would permit him to 
mail that letter, even should he be so criminal as to 
be married and ugly f Didn't know the gentleman's 
address. Wanted P. M. to add it, as the gentleman 
had formerly resided at Setting Moon, and postmas- 
t. is, like school teachers, are expected to know 
everything. Had " a misgiving," however, that the 
wretch might be so ignorant as not to know every 
body's business and whereabouts, and told him in 
case he should be a fit subject for the Institution for 
1-Yrlile Minded Males, to return the letter to "Miss 
Folly Woggle Primrose." I watched the stage 
savagely that bore off that important missive, and 
wondered if that postmaster would return the let 
ter to me, and express " much regret that his ignor 
ance would prevent me from accommodating me." 
What right had " such creatures" to live, I wanted 
to know ? Why weren't they smothered with a red 
ilannel shirt, and their clothes (the most important 
part of their " make up") given to somebody who 
did have brains sufficient to appreciate the honor of 
being permitted to minister, in the smallest degree, 
to ray royal comfort. Nobody solved the problem 
of course, I didn't ask any one, for if I couldn't, 
who could? Echo answered, (without any known 
reason for so doing) " nobody !" Of course, echo 

an oracle of wisdom when I invoked her! 
Never can I forget how I strove to " while away 



284 MY CONGENIAL. 

the hours" of waiting, to hear from Setting Moon, 
by devouring enormous quantities of bread and 
butter over the spicy pages of " Frank Leslie's 
Budget of Fun." An article entitled " Mushroom 
Literati," particularly " attracted my attention," and 
I was about to recognize in its gifted author my 
long expected Fate, (I had expected him since my 
fourth year), when the little village of Castonville 
was electrified by a letter for Miss Polly Woggle 
Primrose ! I wondered that " the sun did not re 
fuse to shine by day, and the moon by night," from 
sheer astonishment ! I congratulated myself and 
" fellow citizens," that Mount Vesuvius was not one 
of the attractions of Castonville, as I was confident 
an eruption would have taken place to " add to the 
grandeur of the scene," when the letter from Set 
ting Moon was handed to me. 



CHAPTER II. 

My Congenial's name was "Davy !" I recognized 
the long-looked for being so soon as I had perused 
his epistle. Hope and memory were for a time at 
rest. I revelled in the glory of gratifying my ca- 
coethe scribendi by answering the letter. "It is the 
hallucination of some moon-struck imagination," 
that " brevity is the soul of wit." I " begged leave 
to differ." Thought my letters extremely witty, 
though they were far from being brief. Davy 



MY CONGENIAL. 



285 



agreed with me ! Weekly, semi-weekly, and tri 
weekly, (according as I had postage stamps), we 
continued to immortalize foolscap to each other. 
This, however, did not satisfy me. Does any rea 
sonable person imagine there was any enjoyment in 
having constantly before my mind the provoking 
lines that Goldsmith, unfeeling wretch, must have 
perpetrated for my especial annoyance, 

" Full many a flower is born to blush unseen," etc., 
and possessing at the same time an intensely uncom 
fortable realization of the startling fact, that Cas- 
tonville afforded but one beau, and he was mo 
nopolized! Sister-crinolines there was not! I felt 
no superabundance of gratitude that I was doomed 
to whiten " unseen," and " waste my sweetness" 
(jockey-club and millefleur) on the unappreciative 
scent of feminine noses ! What did I care for the 
insignificant pressure of their dough-tiftgers, and the 
idiotic stare of their milk-pan rinsing eyes? Davy, 
too, thought it unnecessary and fast becoming im 
possible for us to exist so far apart and so " we 
met." 

I had become convinced that it would be a most 
refreshing way to vary the monotony of life and 
study, character, country people, corn-fields, and 
" the rising generation" generally, by taking a coun 
try school. Davy was* apprised of my intention 
thought it a good idea. Didn't think he had ever 
heard of a personage so miraculously entrancing as 
a young lady school teacher. Thought I might 



286 MY CONGENIAL. 

write a book upon so original a character. Hoped 
I didn't expect him to propose, or at least to elope 
before my school was out. Told him I could wait 
a day or two and see " what would happen." Fi 
nally agreed to meet him in the city of L , on 

the Saturday morning following. 

It was very early when I bade my affectionate 
relatives an appropriate farewell, by emptying a 
quart or so of water over their unappreciative tares, 
and causing them to start up with a bewildered ex 
pression of countenance, as if unable to comprehend 
the calamity that was about to befall them in the 
shape of my departure. They comprehended at 
length, " cast rueful glances" at the streaming pil 
low cases, not ruffled half so much as their amiable 
tempers, and hoped the cars would run off the track 
and spill me in a horse-pond. I graciously thanked 
them by throwing one hair brush, two cologne bot 
tles, and an inkstand bed-ward, and departed. I 
fancied " a smothered groan smote my ear." Could 
it be possible they had " let concealment, like a 
worm," etc. ? Various thoughts flashed meteor-like 
through my brain, and dropping my band-box, six 
bundles, caba, fan, parasol and half-eaten sandwich, 
I rushed back to assure them of " a reciprocity of 
feeling." 

I opened the door, and (Julius Caesar, Winfield 
Scott and Parson Brownlow,) what a sight met my 
astonished gaze ! My sister, my only sister, Sabina 
Susan, the belle of Castonville, "the woman in 



MY CONGENIAL. 287 

white," the most angelic of mortals, bent over a 
washbowl stained with a crimson stream ! What 
could it mean? Had that "smothered groan," in 
agony at my departure, broken a blood-vessel ? 
Suspense was not to be endured. I would "know 
the worst" Did not, however, permit my curiosity 
and anguish to annihilate my presence of mind, con 
sequently seized the camphor-bottle and castor oil, 
poured equal quantities of each in her eyes and ears, 
and entreated her to put the towel over her stained 
face, to keep from soiling my dress, and "come 
rest in this bosom" until she could acquire sufficient 
composure to bid me farewell. "An awful stillness 

reigned," save " there was a sound of " water 

dripping from her head, and then I learned that the 
wretch, the unfeeling female, Sabina Susan, was not 
weeping nor bursting blood-vessels for my depar 
ture, but pouring water upon her head because the 
hair brush had struck her on the nose! I was dis 
gusted. " The crimson tide of life-blood," the tear 
ful face and " smothered groan," were not, after all, 
because the stage stood waiting to be.:r my " re 
mains" 1 from the hitherto illuminated Castonville ! 
I had no words to expres< my indignation, (iu- 
thered my bundles, sans half their original contents, 
and started st::p--\vard, where the agoni/ed driver 
was sitting in mute helplesne<> f:it verging into 
despair. One would have thought the wretch 
would have driven fast after so lengthy a rest, but 
he must have known I was enduring an initiatory 



288 MY CONGENIAL. 

purgatory lest the cars should leave me, ergo, re 
venged himself by allowing the horses to move as 
if they had creation tacked to their heels, and were 
afraid of waking up somebody's baby. The yells 
of a thousand infantile wretches would have been 
inusic compared to the impatient throbs of my 
"longing heart," longing to behold Davy. We 
reached the cars at last. (A circumstance, by the 
way, at which, taking all the circumstances into 
consideration, I can never cease to wonder.) The 
conductor assisted me from the platform, with an 
air distractingly blase and commonplace. What 
mattered it that the cars were crowded ab initio ad 
fcnem. What did I care that college boys and 
school girls attacked each other unmercifully re 
lentlessly displaying their fascinations regardless of 
consequences ? Fourteen car-loads of college boys 
could have produced no effect on me, when I was 
expecting to meet " Davy," my Congenial ; the 
Being perfect, because of his affinity to my delect 
able self. I took out my latest maga/ine, gazed 
affectionately upon its uncut leaves, and wondered 
how anything could appear so calm when 1 was in 
a state bordering upon distraction, arising from ex 
cessive delight that I had not " lived in vain," nor 
Davy in China, win-re lie might never have heard 
of me ! I told you some time since, " we met." A 
benevolent impulse prompted that, dear reader. I 
knew the anxiety of suspense, and I wished to 
spare you the agony of conjecture as to whether 
Davy and I really met after all. 



MY CONGENIAL. 289 

After a vast amount of creaking and backing, 
and shaking, the cars stopped. I "felt the warn 
ings of a fate !" Imagination grew eloquent in her 
description of Davy! Tall, graceful, white-browed, 
raven-tressed; full of dignity and manliness, my 
beau-ideal, the hero 6T my dreams, etc., etc. 
Should I faint at the fiEJtglance of those " splen 
dor-haunted" orbs, or AHy pale, and clutch my 
parasol for support ? 

And "Davy?" What would be his emotions 
upon beholding me ? Would he gaze at me in a 
long dumb trance of admiration, murmuring, men 
tally, Byron's words ; " A long-haired girl, slender 
and tall ?" And would he continue to be Byronic, 
and rejoice that I was not " a dumpy woman" 

Ah ! yes ! I was confident my " twin-spirit* 1 
could not do otherwise. Complacently, and Avith 
unutterable dignity, I drew my five feet seven to 
irs tallest height, glanced compassionately upon 
those commonplace persons around me who were 
not like myself, rushing on to fate, (i. e., Davy,) 
gave my hand passively to my brother, who waited 
to assist me from the cars, and then -I looked for 
" Davy !" Bald heads and bushy heads, little 
heads and large heads, round ones and long ones, 
ilitted l>efore my eager gaze, yet I saw no traces of 
"The r>einir Beauteous, who unto my" care and 
keeping, and future hen-pecking, I fancied was to 
In- given. I began to experience sensations strange 
ly like "hope deferred," ergo, entreated brother to 



290 MY CONGENIAL. 

call a carriage instantly, and permit my unhappy 
remains to be borne from that unappreciative de 
pot. And yet a vision " A strange bright dream 
would to me come," of what " might have been," 
had Hope been less deceptions ! 

Never before had the countenances of hacknu-n, 
draymen and newsboys seemed so perfectly idiotic. 
Never had the pavement a more unmeaning stare, 
and wheelbarrows a more grating sound. I mused 
upon the " vanity of life," the certainty of disap 
pointment, the mutability of human affairs, and felt 
like giving utterance to my feelings in that sublime 
quotation : " This world's a wilderness of woe !" 
Never before had I felt the full force of that 
erudite remark of the lamented Deacon Bedott, 
" We are all poor critters." What might have been 
the experiences of a man who could give utterance 
to such a sentiment? Doubtless he had, (true to 
the instincts of his genius, d la Byron, Dante, Pe 
trarch, and myself, an ideal love,) before making 
the acquaintance of his devoted wife, known some 
" Jemima Jane," as " false and fair" as my Davy. 
I looked down at my trunk, and wondered if it 
must share my fate, and bear the now hateful cog 
nomen of Miss Polly W. Primrose. Ah, Davy, 
Davy, I could not say with philosophical calmness, 
" Thou little knowest the mischief thou hast done !" 
I might have wept ; but tears <u>d \r}i' t t<jiin</ ! Ye 
Gods ! they were sworn enemies \ E'en were it 
otherwise, should I weep for one so heartless? 



MY CONGENIAL. 291 

No ! I tightened my bonnet-strings with determi 
nation, and felt that my faith in mankind was 
wrecked. 

"Forever wrecked, sweet girlhood's faith 

Woke woman's withering scorn, 
For the crimson lips smile cutting words, 

That were strangers to them that morn." 

" Cutting words," reader ! Yes ! " Cutting 
words" to the infatuated newsboy who thrust a 
bundle of papers under my nose. " Cutting words" 
to my brother, who inquired if I had the toothache, 
or only a fit of indigestion. Sternly I drew myself 
up in my new high-heeled gaiters and high-topped 
bonnet, and took my brother's arm with dignity. 
"We were about to proceed to the carnage when 
some one blockaded our passage. I looked around 
indignantly. A diminutive creature in pantaloons 
said something to my brother, and then (oh, reader, 
how can I proceed, " spare me the details," " pity 
my misfortunes,") my five feet seven inches, in 
creased by h lull-topped bonnet and heeled shoes 
to something less than six feet, was presented to 
Jive feet two inches, as Davy ! 

Did I "become insensible," and on my recovery 
find myself redinini: on a neighboring tar-barrel:* 
No, reader! With remarkable presence of mind, 
I bowed to the appalled Davy, \vlio looked up at 
me as one mi^lit suppose a \ ery small boy ga/ing 
upon a giratle ! " Words were inadequate !" " Lan- 



292 MY CONGENIAL. 

guage failed !" My brother assisted me into the 
carriage, handed Davy his card, and I was " driv 
en almost to distraction," and quite to the hotel, 
where I met a tall major, who has since rescued 
me from the miseries and mortifications of old 
maidism, that comes alike upon the child of wealth 
or of poverty, unless she distinguishes herself as 
the interesting heroine of our sketch has done ! 

NEWCASTLE, KY. 



Over a Faded Now, 



As some glad bird, from out the starry splendors, 

of its heavenward flight; 
Might bend with shining wing to view the darkness 

of a lone abyss, 
My heart, with pallid brow and quivering lip, goes 

back to night; 
And gazes on the blackened ruins of a thing I once 

called bliss. 



Oh, broken flower ! Oh, puny bloom ! Oh, night 
shade of a buried past ! 

I crush thee, now, 'neath Pride's stern heel, and 
scorn, upon thy gravestone cast. 

Yet thou, Qh crushed, forsaken thing ! wert once 
the all of life that filled 

The perfumed :iir my being breathed. The all 
whose joy my pulses thrilled. 

With eager, panting, trusting hope, I clasped and 
held thee to my breast ; 



294 OVER A FADED NOW. 

The great earth smiled upon my joy. " The Saints" 
I thought " are not more blessed." 

But drifting clouds o'ercast the sky. Thy petals 
held a cruel thorn ; 

I felt the shadows of a night whose darkness in my 
soul was born. 



The homeless rains were all that flung an answer 

to my spirit's moan ; 
And memories clustered o'er my heart, like grasses 

o'er a broken stone. 
Ah, well ! the pain is hushed and dead, I only see 

a gleaming scar ; 
I'll shake thy image from my heart, as night might 

drop a faded star. 



I'll turn me from the " wannish light" that memoiy 

sheds o'er what was thine ; 
My heart, like azure tinted Night, shall yield to 

splendors more divine. 
Oh, fallen star ! The dreary void in which thy 

vanished light went down, 
Can never give thee back again, a jewel for my 

Being's crown. 



The light is quenched, the song is hushed, the dead 
blooms deck a pallid face ; 



OVER A FADED NOW. 295 

Oblivion holds thy love's cold corpse. Within my 

Jieart thou hast no place. 
The night the cruel night was long, but now my 

Being smiles in scorn. 
On what hath been, and what doth fade before the 

crimson of the morn. 



The morn hath come, the night has passed, and yet 

my life's a weary thing, 
That flits amid its new-born blooms, like some lone 

bird with broken wing. 
The sunshine is the same, that shone on the dead 

Past's deceitful glare ; 
And richer blooms, my Being's boughs I know of 

late have learned to bear. 



Yet, as a human hand will lose, by toil, the nice- 
ness of its touch, 

'Tis so, methinks, a heart grows hard, whose life 
hath sorrowed overmuch, 

Grows hard, and passes by unseen, the richest, 
rarest blooms of earth, 

And hears a hollow-hearted moan in every joyous 
sound of mirth. 



And yet methinks, 'tis well the joys, corrupted by 
life's " moth and rust," 



296 OVER A FADED NOW. 

Pall on our tastes, and leave the heart to crumble 

to its native dust ; 
That from the ashes, cold and dead, the free, glad 

spirit may arise, 
On wings of joy to realms of bliss, whose portals 

are the star-set skies. 



NEWCASTLE, KY. 



At the Gate, 



Dreary gleams of twilight scatter shadows o'er the 

barren moor, 
White sails in the breezes flutter farther from the 

yearning shore. 
Waves, like memories, growing dimmer, circle 

wider in the sea 
As the dreams, my heart hath cherished, faint and 

perish dreams of thee. 

When the Spring her crown was wearing blushing 
with her roses sweet, 

And I listened at the gateway for the coming of 
thy feet 

All the stars that gemmed the bosom of the azure- 
tinted night, 

Seemed like homes of radiant blessings sent to 
crown my life with light. 

Through the woods the winds kept sighing with a 
weary troubled yearning, 

20 



298 AT THE GATE. 

And to see if thou wert coining, in the starlight I 
kept turning, 

Holding down the beating quiver of my eager 
trembling heart, 

Listening to the night winds shiver all the maple- 
leaves apart. 

If I wearied long of waiting heart-beats shuddered 
in a moan, 

Yet how soon the darkness and the dreary wood 
land shone, 

And how quick my young -heart took its gay ex 
pectant beat, 

When I heard the welcome music of thy eager 
hastening feet. 

Oh, Alonzo, eager-hearted at the gateway never 
more 

Shall I strain my yearning glances o'er the dreary, 
dreary moor. 

Other forms will cast their shadows close to mine 
along the shore, 

And the sea will rush up madly with the old famil 
iar roar. 

But though memories twine their fingers round my 

young heart's deepest core, 
Love for thee, oh, false Alonzo, can come to me 

nevermore. 



AT THE GATE. 299 

Oh Alonzo, fickle minded, though the wound was 
long and deep 

Yet the pain and throb and quiver now are wrap 
ped in deathless sleep. 

And though in my heart is written on thy grave 
stone " Nevermore" 

Yet my life hath richer blossoms than it ever knew 
before. 

And a face, oh false Alonzo, truer, steadier than 
thine, 

Beams on me in tertder worship with a splendor 
half divine. 

Oh Alonzo, in the silence of the Future's creeping 

years, 
Will our dead Past glide before thee through some 

mists of unshed tears ? 
Wilt thou see the old moon rising like an airy 

phantom bride, 
As it rose above the gateway where we lingered 

side by side ? 

Wilt thou strive to grasp my fingers through the 

mists of phantom years ? 
Wilt thou feel thy pale cheek burning with some 

eager memory- tears ? 
Wilt thou but I care not, false Alonzo, what the 

thoughts that come to thee. 



800 AT THE GATE. 

All our hopes and aims are separate, " May God 
judge 'tween me and theef" 

May I love and serve Him truly for a dearer love 
than thine, 

May the pathway from " The City" fringe its gold 
en blooms to mine ! 

NEWCASTLE, KY. 



The Parting, 

I've said a thousand times my heart, 

With all its woe, might love no more 
That Memory ne'er from life could part, 

Nor Love e'er haunt my soul's dark shore, 
Yet now I know the ashes gray 

But waited ere they sprung to flame, 
Until thy hand should tune my heart 

To breathe forever thy dear name. 

Yes, now I know the years that fled 

And left my heart a lonely thing 
But vanished that, from ashes dead, 

A fairer bloom might spring. 
If I might tell thee all I feel, 

And paint the rainbows in my heart, 
Then thou wouldst know for woe or weal 

I still am thine where'er thou art ! 



If I might pluck the fadeless bloom 
That blossoms in my life for thee, 



302 THE PARTING. 

To light thy earth-life's weary gloom 
I'd do it though 'twere death to me. 

If all the joys I've sought or known, 
If all the bliss I've hoped might be, 

If all the maddening raptures flown 
Were mine, Pd give them all to thee ! 



If rose-crowned earth and star-gemmed sky 

Their rarest treasures gave to me 
And joy would come if I should die, 

I'd give them all and life to thee. 
I try to hush my pleading heart 

And quell the rising memories there 
To let thee quietly depart 

And reason triumph o'er despair. 



And yet a sad, wild, anguished moan 

Breaks like a maddened ocean wave, 
A voice that sighs " Alone alone 

With memory and ' a hidden grave.' " 
A voice of love across the hush 

Of woe that locks my shaded breast 
A tiny plant no storms may crush, 

A flower that breathes of peace and rest. 



Forever Love's fair fadeless bloom 
Across my weary life will creep, 



THE PARTING. 303 

A star amid Fate's cruel gloom, 
Until they " lay me down to sleep." 

Ah, it were madness now to dream 
Of joys that gild the vanished Past, 

Of hopes that shed a transient gloom 
" Too bright, too beautiful to last." 



For, oh, the smiles of Fate have flown, 
And I must say " Farewell" to thee 

Must hush my wrung heart's pleading moan 
And turn me back to misery ! 

To memory that by night and day 
Falls cold and ceaseless on my heart, 

Nor wears the throbbing pulse away, 

But whispers e'er how dear thou art! 



And rings forever through my brain 

A minpled song of hope and fear, 
A note of joy a cry of pain, 

A smile of bliss, a scalding tear ; 
And ever thus till life hath past, 

And pulsi-less lie .my heart and brain, 
Thy love a radiant gleam shall cast 

Across this parting's bitter pain. 



A meteor o'er my life's dark sky, 
A blossom in a 'desert place, 



304 THE PARTING. 

Will be the memory of thine eye 
The memory of thy worshipped face. 

And when life's weary task is done, 
Its pleasures and its sorrows o'er, 

When earth is passed and heaven is won, 
Pll be thy own forevermore ! 



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